


Everything is (not) Okay

by MiserableRu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha Dimitri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dimitri muling over people's scent, Multi, Voices in head, a lot of back and forth, also trauma, and what I hope as healing, but you can see my bias, doesn't even need to be seen as shippy, probably going to make people dizzy so I'm updating the format, scent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiserableRu/pseuds/MiserableRu
Summary: Whenever he closes his eyes, all he could smell was the bloody battlefield - with its demise thick in the air. Everyone was screaming and the world turned red in his eyes.So when he smells something not of death, he has no idea what he should probably do.orDimitri thinks he's broken after Duscur, the world thinks otherwise. Well, at least it eventually points the proof his way whether he notices or not.He's not dense, just preoccupied...
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	Everything is (not) Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I was about to make pron when my own reply caught my eyes  
> 'Sugar and Spices, but in Dimitri POV'  
> Me: Oh okay, it might be as long as Claude's POV so it might take some time  
> This fic: 70 pages in doc  
> Me: Pls kill me
> 
> Different POV to [Sugar and Spices](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780765). Can be read separately though.
> 
> Notes: I've beta read it myself like 5 times and my eyes hurt so I apologize if there's any mistake or misspelling bcs lord have mercy on me if I have to read it again
> 
> Update: I read it again and made a LOT of changes to the format (should've done this before posting, but work had been a bit of a...distraction) Also have more tags and additional summary.

Nobody knew who would be the Golden Deer's house leader for this year; that was a fact. It didn't quite bother him despite how most nobles in the kingdom were in an uproar. 

Apparently, many had found out that Duke Riegan had appointed an heir - one who bears the Riegan crest. So came the speculation that this mystery heir would be this year's Golden Deer leader. Others assumed that Duke Riegan would keep his precious heir under lock and key. Since the death of his son, it had been presumed that the Riegan line would cease to exist. But with this newfound heir, it might continue forth.

He's interested, but not to the point that he would cause commotion.

When the first day of the academy rolled by, he didn't meet the heir straight on.

Instead, the first person he saw was Edelgard. Step siblings as they are, he couldn't find it in himself to get close to her. Despite what they are expected to be - close but not close enough to incite political chaos - both found it convenient to keep their distance. 

Curtly, she passed her greeting and he followed suit if only out of politeness. They both avoided eye contact as they made mindless conversation about the weather. She smells of burning flowers and ashes - a combination of smell that he had grown far too accustomed to. It used to not be like this, he vaguely remembered, but it was to be expected. They both had changed for the better or worse, shaped to fill their responsibility as heir to their respective kingdom.

As their conversation grew quieter and somewhat awkward, a loud yell and a bang from the door startled them both. His attention quickly snapped toward the newcomer; the expected Golden Deer's house leader. 

Dark hair as well as tanned skin with bright green eyes and a wide smile. With the yellow cloak, he almost looked like a child of the sun. 

The newcomer greeted them both cheerily and he readied a polite reply when the scent suddenly hit him.

Warmth was the immediate word he thought, but for the first time, it is not associated with the fire that burns people's life. He remembered his father; a warm smile in one cold winter night. Freezing as it was his father had smiled and claimed the kitchen to cook the most wondrous meal. Spices, his mind supplied, pepper and nutmeg; with an undertone of mint. Rich in flavor, warm and comforting.

The second word came after Edelgard gave it voice: an omega.

It is almost unheard of in the kingdom for an omega to lead anything. Not even a beta could take the reign easily despite bearing a crest - like in Sylvain’s case who shares the seat with his alpha brother. An omega is expected to stay at the back, caring and nurturing, not giving command and charming people to their side.

Perhaps the Alliance sees only the heir’s capability and not their secondary gender?

He tried to placate Edelgard when she raised her voice but her ashen scent merely spiked as he raked his brain for reason. It's distracting, very much so that he had to grit his teeth to hold back a growl. To his surprise, the omega stepped between them - he was horrified when he did so - and by the goddess, he couldn’t just stay silent as Edelgard glared dagger at the interfering student. 

So he did what he could think of over the cacophony of disasters slowly unravelling before his eyes. He grabbed the omega's wrists and turned him to meet his eyes - they’re so green, like the forest, a rarity hue in his home - and blurted, naively, “You smell really _really_ good!”

These words weren’t meaningless babble. It’s a genuine praise, purely from the heart and he pressed on, driven by his instinct as his two conversation partners stared at him, befuddled. Riegan’s scent sharpened and he took pride at the fact that it might have been preening under his praise.

Then, all those years of learning what to speak in courtly affairs came rushing back into his head. Shame burnt his ears as he bowed apologetically, choosing not to trust his mouth with words just yet. Without further delay, he launched himself to the door, for once not caring how hard he threw them open.

Later, that day, he’d be teased by his childhood friend - only Sylvain, perhaps, he’s always infuriatingly nosy when it comes to his attraction toward anyone - as he recounted the tale in stutters when they asked how the first house leader’s meeting went.

* * *

A spar is always a good way to spend his day and Felix is a constantly strong opponent he could ask on a daily basis. Sure, he would be replied with a bitter scoff or a threat for him to go all out, but he can handle that. It's easy after the first hundreds of spars with him. 

So he seeks Felix out when he needs anyone to spar, nodding thoughtlessly to the usual threat - and mockery - thrown his way. Their intention to spar in peace is mitigated, however, as crowds gather around them when they prepare themselves. He looks around, feeling that pang of nervousness biting at him. Felix snorts at his antics, "Scared you're going to hurt someone, boar?" he asks, taunting.

He shakes his head, "This is not ideal for a spar"

The sword is made of wood, yet in Felix’s hand, it would strike like a steel could, "A little spectacle won't hurt your stupid reputation" he says.

He opens his mouth to retort, but settles for a sigh instead. It's exhausting to reply to Felix's words sometimes so he decides not to. His spear taps against the floor twice before he raises it, ready to attack. His sparring partner clenches harder at the training sword, before he leaps for the first offensive strike. 

They do not need a countdown to know when the other is ready.

It's easier to tune out the scent when he's concentrating on parrying and guarding against Felix's reckless assault. What he could smell is just Felix and as usual, it's the flaring scent of blood as well as melted steel. It used to be something else, he once thought, but could barely recall what.

A heavy strike forces him once more to play it safe. He grits his teeth, trying to recall every trick in his books to keep his crest from acting up. Losing his weapon has always been scary to him. Not for his sake, but more for his opponent. At least with a weapon he could understand how much limit he could exert. Without, they’re asking for his crest to break his opponent into pieces.

He might trust Felix to survive his barehanded attack, but he doesn't trust himself not to hold back. 

Felix growls when he smacks his sword loose from his grip. That usually would stop everyone else. Not Felix though…

Almost without a pause, Felix sweeps his footing and follows it with a smooth arching kick up to his chin. His spear shakes against the boot and a click of tongue slips out of Felix's gritted teeth. For a moment they stay like that, trembling from the exertion they both make to push the other. Finally annoyed by the stalemate, Felix breaks free, leaping back to snatch his forgotten sword from the floor.

"Hiding behind your weapon like a proper coward" the swordsman says in a hiss. He exhales slowly, keeping his calm, "I do not think it is wise to meet a jaw-crushing kick head on" he huffs as Felix snorts - definitely not amused.

A moment too soon, Felix moves in once more, as aggressive as before. He knows this routine and it's not meant for show, regardless of how fluent it could look. Felix never cares for the crowds around him, he only wants to get stronger. Sometimes it resulted in an all-out brawl like wild animals, other times it turned out as graceful as a practiced performance.

Which is why Felix always provides a challenge for him to maintain the durability of his weapon. Caught off guard and he'll lose his weapon. Retorting with offensive moves? He would have to keep pushing while keeping his weapon intact. 

At some point, Felix does let up, striking not as fast nor as fierce. He takes this as an opportunity to strike back when the swordsman snorts. And swats his spear clean off of his hand. 

( **Remember when it happened before in a real battlefield? The blood after is hard to clean** the whisper below his ears accuses him)

Cursing under his breath, he leaps out of the next swing, eyes darting toward where his spear lies. "Look at your opponent, you moron..." hisses Felix and instinctively, he meets the blunt edge of the sword with his arm. 

They stay like that for a moment as they gauge one another. "If this is a real sword, you'd lose an arm…" Felix says curtly. 

He stays silent, ignoring the smarting murmurs behind his head in favor of pushing the weapon away. 

To his pleasant surprise, Felix lets him pick the spear up before they both continue. It eventually ends in a draw, cut short by his sparring partner’s apparent complaint about his half-assed effort - as aptly put by Felix. The alpha stalks off the other way as the crowds disperse to make way. He lets his sparring partner go, intending to cool off now that his energy is burnt out.

"Nice match!" 

His grip on the spear tightens. A recently familiar scent wafts toward his nose - is it normal for him to single the other out like this? But Goddess, it's so good, almost a little too much. Awkward 'thank you' slips out of his lips and his mind tries to follow up. 

He tries averting the topic, shoving praises at Felix as he places the spear back to its rightful place. When the arm comes into contact with him and the warmth scent blankets him in comfort--

CRASH

Blinking once. Twice. Thrice? He stares at the destruction before him. Shame bites at the back of his neck as he quickly moves to tidy the mess. Uncaring whether he puts each weapon in the correct place or not, he finishes and makes his way out of the training ground.

He hopes that Riegan would not get offended.

* * *

"Is something bothering you, Dedue?" 

His loyal vassal lifts an eyebrow at his sudden inquiry. Frowning, the tall omega replies with a soft, "Not quite" and averts his eyes. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, "Come now, if anything or anyone bothers you, you can always speak to me" he stops writing entirely, giving his full attention to Dedue.

A flash of hesitation flits in his vassal's eyes. The omega opens his mouth and pauses, as if deliberating whether he should continue or abandon it. Against his better judgement, Dedue sighs and finally says,

"Is Lord Riegan courting you?"

"No-- what?"

He has expected various questions, but not what he heard coming from Dedue's mouth. His vassal flinches and slowly bows, "No, I apologize to be so presumptive about your highness's affair" 

"No, no, I'm not angry," he says, "...what makes you think that he's courting me?"

Dedue pauses for a moment. As he inhales, the Omega finally says his piece, "In Duscur, it is a common sight to see an Omega making the first move to court an Alpha. They leave small touches, making idle talks, anything to catch attention" 

He hums, processing the explanation as he compares it to Claude's action these past few days. "I see…" he says, understanding, "...I do not know how the Alliance handles courting, but in Faerghus, omegas shouldn't be the one to extend the courting offer. So I don't find his...actions intended to convey the desire for intimacy"

His vassal nods thoughtfully at his answer, which he takes as a sign to continue, ”Claude is an interesting...acquaintance if I have to put a name on him as anything...but nothing more than that” he ends. 

While it is true as they haven’t even been acquainted for a week, the Golden Deer’s leader has been surprisingly touchy-feely and amiable. It might be because of his nature as an Omega, but he doesn’t see Claude doing this to even his classmates. Naturally, he grows puzzled.

Especially since his mind seems less coherent whenever the other is near.

What could he do, truly, if his scent alone makes him question a lot about his affliction for years. One that he doesn’t want to really confront head on right now. Or for the rest of his days if possible. It’s a weight he would never let go until he fulfilled their wish, he couldn’t forget about this that easily.

So he’s grateful for Dedue’s help in steering Claude subtly away from him before he gets too overwhelmed to even properly reply a simple greeting.

Surely, he could avoid him if he stays away enough…

...right?

* * *

Professor Byleth, the child of Jeralt and an enigma with no scent has walked into their classroom impassively as they declare that they’d be their professor. A pleasant surprise for once, he admits. The mercenary is _skilled_ and he had hoped that they would choose their house to lead. It’s delightful that they do find his class charming enough to decide on leading them. 

Introducing the new professor to the life in the monastery is enough distraction for him to focus on rather than bumbling about awkwardly trying to avoid a certain house leader. The mock battle is a nice bonus distraction, especially once the list of names that professor Byleth would bring is announced.

Seeing his name among the few makes him a tad bit proud, though he worries about a few who don’t make it. Thankfully, professor Byleth placates Felix’s lack of spot with a promise of sparring session. Which quickly turns into an extra lesson for those who are interested, to Felix’s displeasure.

Once they are in the battlefield, it is clear why the Archbishop is so confident in entrusting a class for professor Byleth to lead despite how young they seem.

They take one long look on the battlefield and begin planning; the bow wielder goes to the trees, the axe wielder out in the open, and everyone nods before falling into their designated spots. Taking out reckless members from the other class is easy. They barely have enough protection and the professor simply tells two of his classmates to flank the poor student.

He, himself is assigned to bait students from the trees for Ashe to have a clear view of. “You’re sturdy,” professor Byleth says as they clasp his shoulder, “...and you’re quick enough to hide behind the tree if something goes wrong. No offense to you, Dedue...” they add, nodding toward his vassal. Dedue replies to their apology with a nod of his own.

This is the reason why he’s trailing across the small woods with Ashe on tow, hidden from view.

Being alert is easy once you've taken part in a war and Dimitri is used to detect any scent in the air. It is unfortunate that he couldn't differentiate between a foe's smell and his allies'. They all smelled the same to him; blood and fire and burning snow. Perhaps he could catch a hint of something that is distinct like flowers or dews. Unfortunately, most of them are smothered with the aforementioned smell, dashing his hope to know each individual by their scent.

But here, in the woods, his nose catches something else - spices, his mind tries to be helpful. This train of thought immediately falls to the only living being with a scent he could actually differ from: the Golden Deer house leader. 

More alert, he shifts through the bushes, following his nose unconsciously until he reaches a clearing. Where a pink-haired student - a Goneril noble, is she?- quickly takes notice of his presence and one handedly throws the training axe in her grasp. Out of instinct, he swings his spear, meeting the axe to parry it to the side and follows it with a thrust.

The girl dodges his attack, nearly tripping over her own feet though she catches her balance gracefully. She keeps her distance, lips moving as if to speak though he could not hear her exact words. For a moment, the girl’s gaze flicks toward the axe in longing, but she grits her teeth and focuses solely on his form instead. The girl smells of burning petals, like Edelgard, but less threatening and more subdued - to a naive mind, inviting even.

Attacking her blindly would be foolish. He needs to lure the girl to a position Ashe would find as beneficial. So he opens his mouth, "Claude is here, isn't he?" he says, not a question, more like a statement for his nose knows it is true. The girl makes a face, "No, he's not exactly here…" she suddenly stops, furrowing her eyebrows, "...wait, why should I tell you where he is?" she pouts though not loosening her stance.

The tree, he quickly concludes and turns his attention to the row of trees behind her. He does not see anything, but he’s partially sure that the Golden Deer’s leader is there among the leaves. His focus turns back to the lone girl, conveying a praise toward her tenacity and a warning should she try to fight back.

"But I'm unarmed and helpless, surely, you wouldn't hurt a weak girl like me?" is spoken and his focus briefly stutters. It had been ingrained deeply to his noble mind to have manners and fight fairly. Victory would be tarnished if it is not fought justly. This hesitation is apparently what the Goneril noble is looking for as she leaps and grips at his spear, pulling with all her might.

And what strength she has, almost as if she has belied what she spoke about herself a few seconds ago. Instinct kicks in when he feels her pull. Like a child playing tug of war, he pulls just as strongly. This thoughtless action serves to backfire as he hears the telltale crack - like a thousand times before - and his only weapon splits cleanly in half with him gripping at the bottom half like a fool.

Damn! He curses himself and looks up to see the pointed half of his spear in her hands ( **Sloppy, sloppy, Dimitri** , a whisper caresses his ear). Her lips curl into a smile as she cheers. And Ashe chooses that exact moment to put a blunt arrow right between her eyes. The resulting sound is not the softest he ever hears and he winces for her. 

That would definitely bruise.

He has no time to celebrate, however, as an arrow is shot between the trees on his peripheral. Ashe’s yelp is enough telling that he has lost his only partner to traverse this woods. Strangely, he feels calm, focused. Even when the trumpet signifying the double out of both students from his house and Claude’s respectively is blown, he is oddly composed. 

_I found you…_

Nodding to Ashe’s ‘good luck’, he retrieves the half pointed spear from the girl - who excuses herself with his friend to retreat from the ‘battlefield’ - and starts to move to where the perpetrator of this chaotic mess is. 

To his surprise, a net made of vines suddenly drops down to restrain his moves. Clever, he thinks, though cowardly, he adds, testing the net tangling his wrists and finds escape could be difficult. A soft thud flicks his attention to his front, where Claude has landed gracefully on the ground, brandishing a smirk. 

He smells so good, his instinct screams as it begs for him to move closer **(Is it that easy to stop you, son? **A disappointed question makes him _stop_ ). No, he puts a halt to it before it could grow further and grips tighter to the half spear he’s holding. This net is made of vines...he could just use the spear and…

With a swipe - and perhaps more brute force than he intended - he rips the net, freeing his upper half cleanly. Something in him takes delight in seeing the flinch and panic flashing over Claude’s face, but he pushes it far to the back of his mind. He would not fight with instinct and instilled superiority. 

The omega is quick to make a guilt trip retort though he cares not of how the trap is made. Wielding his half-spear, he demands the Golden Deer’s leader to fight him properly, not hiding behind schemes and tricks.

If Claude wants a fight, he should come out and fight him like a proper combatant.

And thankfully, his challenge is met with a serious answer. As Claude reaches behind himself, fingers skimming over the feather ends of his arrows, he could see his thoughts and plans running across those green eyes. Good, at least Claude will face him head on--

Wait…

Why is he doing that?

His mind growls at the sudden influx of the omega’s scent. Instinct quickly takes over his motion, switching his focused mind to longing as his heart begs for him to take another step closer, please and let his nose bury itself to the inviting smell. It has been too long, far too long and he has forgotten how _that_ feels like.

"And what do you think you're doing, Claude von Riegan?"

Like he’s been snapped from a trance, Dimitri blinks, dumbfounded by the voice of his class’s professor who, for all he knows, has teleported right behind Claude. It is enough for him to register his actual intended move - defeat the Golden Deer’s leader - and forcefully shove his previous train of thought to be dealt with later.

After poking Claude’s back with the blunt end of his half-spear, he retreats, ears burning in embarrassment. Goddess, he wishes not to deal with this thought at all if he could.

* * *

Sometimes he doesn’t act like a fool when Claude is near. 

One of those rare instances is in the dining hall - where he could smell the dishes being eaten and the cooks preparing meals, everyone’s scent becomes muddled. So Riegan’s scent blends seamlessly to the delicious smell of curry or other fragrant dishes. 

This is a nice change of pace - the longing replaced with plain curiosity about the other leader. 

As it turns out, Claude is a nice conversationalist - when he's not touchy - bringing with him interesting topics and future plans regarding Fodlan. When he has to recall past events, Claude looks genuinely interested as he absorbs every word that comes out of his mouth. 

People tend to give him their condolences regarding the tragedy of his past. Riegan doesn’t do that. The omega digs deeper, sympathetic how he feels during the event but is quick to divert his attention to what came after instead. So he tells Claude of a wish - as silly as it is - he harbors after Duscur fell: for the history not to repeat itself. 

That people would learn and understand the pain of the past, using it to move forward instead of emulating it. A kingdom where people strive to be better than the past, learn from them and be stronger than he could.

“That’s how you intend to rule as king?” comes the question from Claude’s mouth, almost unexpected.

“Yes, the burden of the past shouldn’t be placed upon those who live for the future...” he says and hopes that his face does not give anything away.

In a way, it is the truth. This principle is what he wants his people to uphold, free of the weight from the past. The innocents don’t deserve to carry the ghosts who had died in their history. This is the burden that he chooses to carry by himself, not to throw it at his people and expect them to thrive.

His people, his friends, his kingdom, they would all live for the future of Faerghus.

 _Because he would live for the past in their place_

Claude’s smile widens at his answer, as if he has been expecting him to finally give words to his dream - a form, not a simple abstract concept that the omega thought up. Yet there’s an underlying sympathy inside those green orbs. A sympathy that he has yet to find in himself to feel deserved to have.

Then, with a playful wink, Claude replies to him, "I bet you'd win the commoners' support looking all charming and suave while delivering that speech of hope" he says easily. The tease sounds normal, almost predictable. Claude always does that whether he’s in a conversation or an actual battle.

So he replies as genuinely as possible with honest concern from the heart, "I do hope they're moved by my words, not by my status or...worse, looks"

It is unfortunate that he has still yet to adapt with how quick Claude’s scent can overwhelm his senses. So his reaction to flee when the omega drapes himself over his shoulder - and speaks something, he can’t quite recall - is not at all surprising. With flight instinct activated, he bolts from the dining hall, blurting excuses to see his house professor and throws a ‘bye’ to at least bring closure to their conversation.

Out from the door, his feet instinctively take him to the training ground, where he would be found later on, somehow begging for Ingrid to spar with him so he could at least burn the rest of his embarrassment out of his high strung body.

* * *

Claude’s companion soon becomes too frequent for him to miss. His scent becomes ‘expected’ instead of unpredictable and every time they talk with one another, he feels calm. He wouldn’t say that speaking with Claude will somehow magicked away his problem, but with a neutral pair of ears whose owner is witty and free of biased opinion, he feels less burdened by his trouble. 

So he speaks and speaks and speaks more.

About his interest and sometimes a few tidbits of his past. He wisely chooses not to speak about Edelgard, merely mentioning that they did meet back when they’re a pair of simple children. A fact that Claude teases him mercilessly with. One that opens a door to a slew of questions he addresses back toward the omega in an attempt to get back at him.

_Claude diverts each of those back to him though, never once granting him a clear answer. A bit disappointing, but he knows he can't simply force an answer out of a friend_

About the short, but delightful time he spent with Glenn - “He seriously kicked your ass and got away with it?”, “Yes, he did” - and his dream for the kingdom’s future.

It is scary how much Claude can bring out of him by simply being himself. 

( **Weak…** they would definitely say, invisible hands clawing at his back, phantom touches burning his skin as they mock him for getting attached to the omega)

But whenever he smells Claude's scent or being close enough to feel the warmth he exudes like the sun, he forgets even just a little about their voices. His longing to be in the vicinity of that smell wins over the guilt and surprise. So despite how scary it is, he keeps accepting the omega’s attention, exchanging small conversations, and little comfort he finds from the other’s touch. 

Claude introduced him to a world where everyone and everything doesn’t exist simply to remind him of his past failure. That he could look forward to the future and maybe, _maybe,_ be free of their screams for revenge. This hopeful thought would immediately be taken over when he’s back in the confinement of his own mind, however, and the guilt he feels would be tremendous. It clenches his heart as if it wouldn’t let go.

_How dare he forget about his obligations? About the demand they put on his shoulders. They **trust** him to carry out what they couldn’t and he couldn’t just forget about that because he has tasted ~~freedom~~_

He has responsibility he couldn’t betray, this he carves into his heart deeper.

It doesn’t matter how free Claude can make him feel, as long as their vengeance has yet to be carried out, he would not bask in what the omega has offered him with.

* * *

One day, Felix wrinkles his nose - not strange - at him and says in the most irritated tone the alpha could muster, "You smell like Riegan, boar" while jabbing a pointer finger at him.

Dimitri chokes as the wooden lance in his grip snaps completely in two. 

Blessedly, the only presence in the vicinity is Dedue, who stays miraculously unreactive throughout the whole exchange. “And what...do you mean by that, Felix?” he manages to say as he picks the two pieces of wood, lamenting that he has to get another from their class storage. The dark haired alpha snorts, “Exactly as I said, you smell like spices and lemon. It’s distracting...” he says, muttering the last part under his breath.

Really? He spent a lot of time with Claude, true, but has it really been that long that the omega’s scent lingers to intermingle with his own?

“Am I?” he asks aloud, sniffing curiously at the inside of his arm. 

Felix prods his cheek with the blunt end of his sword, “I know you can’t smell it so quit pretending you could and fight me” he says, brandishing the wooden blade at the last word. Dimitri stares thoughtfully at his broken weapon and says, “Let me get a new spear first...” which is quickly replied by a snappy, “Hurry up, then!” from the other. 

Their spar is thankfully uneventful that morning, saved for the occasional tongue lashing that everyone would be subjected to when Felix is involved. He knows that half of it is not quite true, though sometimes he couldn’t help wincing at the bite it inflicts him with. Apparently, knowing him since childhood helps Felix to get creative with what he could offend him with.

Fortunately, Dedue would cut in occasionally, reminding them of how much time has passed during their spar. After half an hour, students start to trickle in, remarking their early spar and ask whether they want to switch opponents. He greets back, genial, and glares at Felix when he curtly dismisses their cordial greeting in favor to continue their fight. 

Professor Byleth arrives just in time to reprimand the dark haired alpha with a tap from the flat side of a training sword against Felix’s head. Though scowling, he does accept the wordless scolding without protest. Seeing him winding down, the former mercenary claps their hands together, gesturing for them to gather as they begin the training lesson for the day. 

A sword is soon shoved to his hands as professor Byleth explains his newest assignment from two weeks ago. He nods to their explanation, trying to concentrate on what he has to master over the course of this week. Soon enough, he forgets the early conversation he had with Felix, focusing solely on how to incapacitate his foe with the back of a sword.

* * *

Of all people to comment on how he smells like, Edelgard is the furthest name he has on the mental list. They could indeed make small conversation, asking about unimportant topics and greeting in a manner that would pass social checks between the two royal heirs. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. Without Claude acting as a buffer for each of them, the bi-weekly meeting would definitely end up more on a sour note than anything else.

They are currently working without the Golden Deer leader, agreeing to meet up earlier due to the amount of paper they have to deal with for this month. Apparently teachers aren’t the only one who have to battle against paperworks. Being an heir is enough reason for them to deal with them as well. They're mostly small disputes in their territory, but it’s good practice. Especially for them, who would definitely deal with mountains of this mundane task every day.

At first they work in silence, absorbed with each of their heap. Then, suddenly, Edelgard lifts her head - a small smirk graces her lips.

“Have you been spending time with Riegan lately?” is what she chooses as the opening question that day. 

Instinctively, he sniffs at the inside of his arms, a strange reminiscent of what he did when Felix had asked a similar question, “Yes? Is his scent rubbing off on me?” he answers, shooting a rhetorical one back. Surprisingly, Edelgard lets out a chuckle, "Not by a lot, no, but I can faintly smell the mixed spices scent he has from you aside from the usual subdued citrus" she says, returning her gaze back to the paper.

He blinks as he slowly puts his own arm down, “Is it distracting you?” he asks, curious. She gives him a somewhat out of place smile, “In the Empire, having one scent mixed with another is a sign of courting intention,” her smile grows when his eyes widen, “...now that you bring this up, I remember catching your scent on Claude...” she trails off, revelling the way he hides his flushed cheeks.

The alpha seems smug when she continues with the work on her table, enjoying his embarrassment. He attempts to salvage this, clearing his throat as he wills the red blush on his face away, “Yes, well, thankfully, it doesn't work that way in the Kingdom...” he says, wryly. 

“What doesn't work that way in the kingdom, your princeliness?”

He swears he leaps for a meter off the chair without his behind leaving it. Judging by the laugh Edelgard has to stifle, he assumes he has done something equally foolish. "It's nothing!" he blurts out, scrambling to fix the strewn pieces of paper in front of him into a neat little stack. When Claude frowns at his reply, he pulls one paper from the stack and busies himself with it.

The omega, apparently couldn’t take the hint and sidles to his side instead, staring intently at his face. He makes it a point to avoid the stare, fixating his sight to the words on his work instead. "You do know that this makes me more curious, right?" comes the words he dreads to hear. Edelgard helpfully snorts from across his seat and he shoots her a baleful glare.

"Perish your curiosity, Claude, we still have work to do" he says insistently, pressing the tip of his pen too hard on the paper it leaves splotches. It is a warning that Claude chooses deliberately to ignore as he leans into his peripheral vision.

So he stops pretending to write and releases a breath, and finally returns the stare he's been receiving with a not-so-calm, “Must you be insistent over such an irrelevant topic?” he asks, tapping impatiently on the table they share. 

Claude shrugs, "How would you know whether it is irrelevant or not if you didn't tell me?" He says, finally flicking his gaze away from him, "...but, if you don't want to spill then I could just ask someone else" 

In a snap, he shoots a desperate look toward Edelgard, trying to convey his plea for her not to indulge Claude's wish. She promptly ignores him in favor of raising inquisitive eyebrows at the omega's gaze. 

"So...princess--"

"I have nothing to share, Riegan" she says, amusement playing on her lips. To his surprise, he recognizes the teasing tone she assumes as she continues, "And we have a lot of work to do so get on with it" the alpha finishes, her voice signifies finality.

Claude makes a disappointed face, though he relents when the princess of Adrestia herself pins him with a decisive glare. "Fine, fine, you, royal highnesses can keep your secrets" he says in defeat and slides himself to a respectable distance from Dimitri.

Relieved, he meets Edelgard's eyes for a flicker of seconds and gives her a somewhat grateful smile.

She gives him a knowing smirk and pretends to ignore him for the rest of the day.

* * *

He hasn't seen Claude today.

That's odd, he thinks as he sweeps over his gaze across the Golden Deer's classroom once more. Usually, the omega would greet him after class, offering companionship, but not pushy enough to demand his acceptance. If Claude has any errand to run, he would drop by to tell him that before he actually leaves. 

Yet there's no sign of him whatsoever in places he could run into Claude.

Curious - and slightly worried - he calls out one student inside the Golden Deer class for an answer. 

The student he questions looks around nervously. Hesitation flashes across the student's face and he could feel his heart clenches. "Is there something wrong with him, Ignatz?" he asks, a tad bit more worried.

"I, uh, don't know if it's in my place to say…" Ignatz finally replies, pushing his glasses to fix them. He nods solemnly and stays quiet, expecting further elaboration. 

Ignatz doesn't provide him with further elaboration.

Private matter then? Something that privy only to the Golden Deer? Or to Claude?

An apologetic look passes Ignatz's eyes as he bows and respectfully refuses to answer him. He lifts both his hands, making a universal gesture of 'it's fine' when another Golden Deer barrels into view. A young woman with amber orange short locks - he remembers the professor’s father mentioning an apprentice with the same exact hue to describe their locks - who eyes him in distrust.

"Is his princeliness bothering you, Ignatz?" she says, still fixating her gaze at him while subtly shifting to stand between him and Ignatz. The nickname she spoke for him prompts a visible wince, though he schools his expression and stays quiet to wait for any informative answer from either students. The shorter student shakes his head vehemently, "N-no, Leonie, his highness is just asking about Claude" he answers meekly. 

He decides to chide in, give them his reason for asking around at least, "I didn’t mean to pry if it’s a private matter. I am simply concerned about his well-being. If you do not want to answer me it is alright. But please do tell me if he needs any help at all" he says. 

Leonie fixes him with a glare as if searching for something between his eyes. He meets her gaze back, puzzled but determined not to back down lest she’d doubt his genuine concern for the Golden Deer’s leader. Her lips quirk into a strange smirk as she shakes her head seemingly defeated, “He wouldn’t be available for the next few days, prince Dimitri”

“But why?” he says, confused.

The older student snorts, “Despite how he carries himself, Claude is still an omega, your highness. Why do you think he would be absent for a few days?” 

“Why would being an omega have anything to do with...” he trails off as his mind finally catches up with the implication behind the simple question, “...oh...” he says eloquently.

“Yeah,” Leonie says, smirking at his dawning comprehension, “...oh”

* * *

Dimitri doesn't remember how it happens. 

All he faintly recalls was an off-handed remark that Felix made. Him being slightly agitated when he woke up probably contributes to the chaotic mess they end up to as well. But what could he do, truly, when everything smells too much?

"Stop emitting your smell, boar!" Had been spoken at some point and he had bared his teeth at the statement, growling not entirely for a mere warning. There's genuine intention behind that, one that Felix caught on and growled back at as a challenge. It was at that breaking point that their friends intervened. Both Ingrid and Sylvain had managed to hold them off from brawling in the dorm, which was thankfully absent of students.

He stormed off for once, leaving Felix bristling in Ingrid's hold while he easily broke free from Sylvain's grip. Without thinking, his feet brought him to the training ground where he had taken a swing at the poor training dummy completely piercing it through with one stab of a wooden lance. Which broke soon after, prompting a frustrated groan out of him.

Dedue isn’t there to keep him calm and there isn’t anyone around but the battlemaster - who looks concerned though wisely quiet. He usually trains in the morning so his presence isn’t odd. What’s strange to any daily onlookers would be the absence of a sparring partner. 

Felix is usually eager to challenge him every day so he’s a constant nearly every morning. Sometimes, he could catch Ingrid before her morning flight around the monastery on her pegasus and in a very rare day, Sylvain would offer himself to contend with.

But today, no one is here. It’s him and his thoughts and whatever voice who has decided to accompany him this day. 

( **Why aren’t you doing something?** It murmurs, **why do you let yourself be trapped in this peaceful stability you’ve built around yourself to the point that you’ve believed it to be true** )

He presses harder at the side of his temple, pleading for it to quiet down, just please let him be for now. To his relief, it does, though not without one last scoff. Involuntarily, he collapses against the pillar, breathing a little too heavy to be considered healthy. His body feels sluggish and taut at the same time - muscles tensed like a spring ready to leap at the slightest wrong pressure. 

It’s painfully uncomfortable.

Then there's the unnatural warmth coursing through his vein. Like a small fire spreading through trees and dry foliages. Everyone smells so _wrong_. This morning, he was so overwhelmed by everyone’s scents that if he closes his eyes, he'd certainly remember that dreadful day. Among the smell of burning corpses, the screams and ashes in the snow field. The figure which left trails of smoke behind them, twisting his senses until he couldn’t smell anything but the blood and the smoldering air.

( **You should remember** , it suddenly comes back, ramming the side of his thoughts, **let it stoke the fire inside you, little princeling and burn everyone who's responsible for our demise)**

"Your highness--" 

His eyes snap open as he turns his gaze up. Toward his familiar vassal, who looked awfully tensed. "Dedue…" he calls. That single word comes out deep and guttural. It's also shaky, unlike his usual controlled speech. 

_What is wrong with him?_

A single stifled, pitiful groan escapes his lips and Dedue flinches at the sound. He could see the scuffle of feet and it pains him to see that his vassal wants to take a step back. "Your highness," Dedue repeats, carefully, "...forgive me for assuming, but are you in a rut?"

His jumbled thought has that single moment of clarity as it scrambles to put everything under that label. Rut, he scarcely remembers, is a natural process for alpha, true. But he couldn't recall the last time it had happened. Couldn't even remember how he lasted through it before. 

"Maybe…" he mutters under his breath, not knowing whether it is true or not.

_Why now?_

For a few minutes, they stay quiet. He tries tuning everything out, ignoring how the taller omega smells like ( **Like Duscur** , it wheezes, **he is Duscur, or the aftermath of that tragedy, at least. Still reeks though** ) and wraps his arms around himself. _Calm down_ , he scolds, _this is the monastery, not Duscur._

“I’m calling the professor…” Dedue finally says, “...please do not leave the training ground, your highness” 

He lets what he assumes as a reassuring smile tugs on his lips as he lifts his head and gives an agreeing nod.

* * *

Professor Byleth isn’t alone when they arrive.

They’ve brought his friends. Who smells like the past all over again; hostile, threatening, and he couldn’t stay silent while they’re at the edge of his senses, prodding for entry. Out, he wants to scream, he’s in the present, he’s here, not wherever he was when he’s fourteen. Unfortunately, not one of them gets the hint and as soon as his nose catches whiff of their faint scents, he snaps to action.

A snarl rolls out of his tongue by instinct as he uncurls and glares at the small group. 

The professor halts abruptly, sharp cobalt eyes meeting his own muddled one. Their lips move; some words are spoken, incomprehensible in his ears. ( **What do they know about you?** It says, sending shivers down his spines, **what do they know about us?** ) So he keeps growling, instinct urges him to protect himself, to keep them - a threat - away.

Nobody moves at this stalemate, everyone has stopped progressing altogether. He’s still snarling at them - a warning that he would not hesitate to fight back if any of them try anything funny. Trust him, he would know if anyone makes a single wrong twitch.

So when one slip up does happen, his eyes quickly zone in on the offender. A louder growl shakes his throat and the other replies in kind; threatening, pushing into the abstract protective line he had made. Something below the surface of his mind snaps.

And he pounces.

* * *

_  
"Ashe, get Claude!"  
_ _  
"What--"  
_ _  
"Just get Claude here right now!"  
_ _  
"Y-yes, I'll be right back!"  
_ _  
"Claude, huh?"  
_ _  
"Is there a problem, Sylvain?"  
_ _  
"Aside from this snarling Alpha me and Ingrid have in our hands and his highness in your capable hands, nothing else, professor"  
_ _  
"Can you two stop having casual conversation-- Felix, stop biting-- and actually focus on the task at hand?"  
_ _  
"Why not? I don't see any end to this unless someone incapacitate either of the two"  
_ _  
"It is why I'm calling for help"  
_ _  
"Claude?"  
_ _  
A nod.  
_ _  
"Say, professor, how about a little bet?"  
_ _  
"Sylvain!"  
_ _  
"Relax, Ingrid, it's nothing big, just I have doubts that the little Riegan heir could magically calm our prince over there"  
_ _  
"Doesn't mean you make bets--"  
_ _  
"Ten thousand golds"  
_ _  
"Professor!"  
_ _  
"Sweet! It's a deal, yeah?"  
_ _  
"I swear Sylvain, I will choke you once this is over"  
_ _  
"Hey, not in public, my dear Ingrid"  
_

* * *

Someone is restraining him. There are limbs locking his own, jumbled words spoken to his ears, and yet there’s no smell he could discern but the other offender’s smell right across from him. He growls at whatever is keeping hold of him, threatening them that he would tear them from limb to limb if he is not permitted to grab that offender’s throat and snap their neck until their smell disappears.

A threat, his mind growls, it must be eliminated or he’d lose someone again. 

( **Again** , one of them coos as cold specter fingers grab his cheeks to fixate his unseeing gaze at the threat, **how pathetic would that be if you lose someone again. Add another companion to the world behind your eyes** )

 _No, no I would not let it_ he swears, _promises_

( **But you can’t move now** , it croons, **like that time you froze during battle and everyone was killed leaving only you to live on**)

 _I know, I know, I’ve promised revenge, I swear I would_ he wants to scream as he struggles harder. Everything is too overwhelming; from the whispers to the other's smell to the threat thrashing across from where he's being kept and how his body feels heavy and clammy and tense. 

( **Really?** And it speaks in a far too familiar voice - too close, _too close_ \- **can you really avenge us, son?** )

Perhaps he should be thankful that these ghosts don't have any scent on them or he'd truly lose any sense of self then and there. 

He growls louder, _I can and I will_ , he hisses through his gritted teeth, furious and determined all at once. The hands around him aren't budging though and he tries to focus on that. They don't have any discerning smell - not a threat - but they _are_ holding him back from what he needs to rip into pieces - an obstacle, then.

If only his crest would listen to him for once--

He stops.

There's a call for his name in a familiar voice. It rings in clarity, snapping his attention toward its source. Accompanying it is a pleasant smell, engulfing his senses until he couldn't smell anything but its lovely scent. His gaze pinpoints the source in a flicker of second, meeting gentle green eyes filled with ~~pity?~~ sympathy.

( **Dimitri** , it calls, hisses, demands his attention)

He sees the outstretched hands, the invitation to get closer. Notices the small, slightly ~~unsure~~ nervous smile on the other's face. And his heart longs, instinct burns and whispers for him to place his hands on its skin.

The hands on him lets go.

( **Dimi--**

And he leaps toward the scent, feeling his mind clears, the voice silenced as his chest shaking with barely contained relief. His nose seeks the other's neck and he inhales deeply at the nostalgic scent. _Claude_ he finally puts a name on this blissful smell. _Claude_ his mind repeats, not willing to stop as if he would forget should he stop reminding himself.

Fingers are carding through his hair, careful and affectionate. He relishes at the gentle treatment, chest rumbling in content. A small part of his instinct is telling him to claim, to flash his teeth and bite down into the offered scent gland. Make the omega his. Make _Claude_ his. 

He doesn't go through with that, no, that would destroy whatever he's having right now. And he's satisfied with what he could take for the moment. 

It is peacefully quiet when he loses himself in Claude.

* * *

It is akin to when he wakes up in the morning; groggy, disoriented, but open to the world. He'd absorb his surrounding with ease, processing each and every movement and sight and smell gradually. A bit of a slow process, but effective enough for him to consider himself as a decent morning person.

So he takes his surroundings in when his mind finally, thoroughly clear of the blurring fog. Warmth, he notes as first and foremost - someone is cradling his body while he sits awkwardly on their lap. His legs are folded at an odd angle, as if he's trying to fit everything onto the other's lap.

Second is the scent of mixed spices; soothing and wistful, he could probably drown in them without getting sick of it. Right, it's Claude, his mind helps. Okay, he agrees drowsily, it’s Claude and he’s on the omega’s lap, nose buried to his gland.

His gaze roams to their surrounding, picking out faces from the crowds; there’s Ingrid and Sylvain with Felix between them - _friends_ , his mind emphasizes as if trying to convince him. There’s professor Byleth, he notes, and Dedue and Ashe, he processes each of their faces and puts their respective names on each. 

They’re all here, safe, _good_.

He intends to stay here, in the cocoon of warmth and safety when his mind finally catches up with him. 

He freezes.

Claude immediately _knows_. The omega is shifting his hands, loosening up as if to let him choose between staying or leaving. If he dares to look up, he would definitely meet his green eyes, shining mischievously and-- no, no, he couldn’t, this is already embarrassing enough.

Yet he does, eyes betraying his command. He peers up, meeting that sunny smile and warm gaze head on. “Good morning, your highness!” Claude greets, all toothy grin and cheerful tone. Abruptly, he leaps from his lap, heart thumping against his chest loudly. His lips open to ask, no, to explain, _no_ , to what exactly, his brain simply can’t process. 

Goddess above, he feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment as he bows deeply at Claude, with an apology tumbling down his lips. Less than a second after, he’s running across the path toward the dorm, ignoring every student he passes. He needs to get back to his room. _Now_.

He falls asleep soon after his head hits the mattress - a restless, but strangely rejuvenating sleep as the familiar scent lingers around him.

* * *

Nightmares are a constant occurrence in his life. It had been like that since his father’s death, followed by the rebel he had snuffed out before coming to the monastery. They thrived in his dream; screaming either in agony or anger. Toward their killer, toward him who has yet to exact their revenge. 

So a night without any dream is the best night he could have. Nightmares tend to hinder his sleep, leaving him with something as simple as cricks on the neck or worse, feeling drained out of energy when he wakes up in the morning. They are unpleasant, to put it simply, and he wishes they could stop haunting even his sleep. He needs the energy if he ever hopes to fulfill their demand.

Yet tonight, he doesn’t have them. There is no nightmare, only one single image of him sitting in front of a fireplace by himself.

It isn’t anything special.

A warm fireplace with pleasantly scented logs burning in its maw. And him, sitting with his thighs and calves pressed together. He wraps around himself, letting the heat warm his curled body as he closes his eyes. It’s nice, taking it in like this.

When a presence suddenly nudges at his side, exuding equal warmth and gentle touches, he doesn’t dare to put a name on it.

* * *

“If you insist, professor...”

Dimitri is right beside his vassal when professor Byleth asks Dedue to represent the Blue Lions for the White Heron cup. He is surprised that they would choose Dedue, though he immediately expresses his support for the omega after. A small part of him feels bad that it might or might not be due to the fact that this means Dimitri would not be chosen as the representative himself.

He truly does not want to dance in front of the crowds. The ball at the end of the moon is enough demand as is.

Not to mention how that Flame Emperor had managed to rile him up until he was letting those phantom voices to overlap with his own. It...disorients him mostly, at worse, he grows protective toward anyone he names as his friends. Closest ones especially. So he might or might not owe an apology to Edelgard for antagonizing her without sound reasoning - she never backs down from a challenge.

They are fortunate to have Claude acting as the middleman for them. 

It is nothing short of relieving to see that Edelgard is as hopeless as he is when Claude actually uses his scent to pacify them both. And a relaxed Edelgard is always a good Edelgard. 

The moon goes by without any significant trouble. Everyone is preoccupied by each of their students' problems that it almost feels normal. There's the fact that professor Byleth apparently takes the White Heron cup very seriously and almost reverently keeps a schedule for Dedue to practice with them.

It's refreshing to see the usually stoic omega goes through the dance routine. 

For his sake, Dimitri only saw it once before politely excusing himself from the next training onward - he could see the gratitude in Dedue’s eyes when he said this. 

This doesn't stop anyone else from observing though. Mercedes and Anette often popped by, offering advice and praises. Ashe is a constant presence, clapping when he succeeds and encouraging when he trips. Dedue is slightly perturbed by these new sets of eyes on him, but chooses not to voice this.

What surprises him the most is it actually pays off.

> _”I’ve never danced before” professor Byleth blurted during one of the lunches. They continued to chew on their dish, eyes not quite seeing at their conversation partner. He blinked, confused, “I’m sorry, what?” he said. Professor Byleth finally looked up at him, indifferent, “I’ve never danced before” they said, repeating the sentence as if they’re telling him that the sky is blue._

Despite the initial disbelief remark that Dedue lets slip up, he relaxes visibly when everyone gives him each of their congratulations in their own unique way. From Felix’s bewildered and short ‘congrats’ to Mercedes’s warm and sincere praise. The mood is considerably light as the White Heron cup passes by and they anticipate the ball in a rather rare delightful atmosphere. 

His second surprise comes in the string of praises that Edelgard asks him to convey for his vassal. He knows how serious Edelgard always is so she is most definitely not teasing when she spells each word. A smile etches on his lips as he answers her with acceptance. 

Claude is more natural when it comes to expressing a simple congratulation. His green eyes twinkle, lips tugged into a wide grin and instantly he's convinced that whatever words coming out of that smile is true.

~~( **Coupled that with his smell, this omega could definitely wrap you around his fingers, couldn’t he?** )~~

The ball comes just in time when the students’ excitement peaks. He couldn’t say the same with how he feels about dancing in general, but he lets himself be swept away by the crowds’ emotion. This is formality, he thinks as he dances, keeping his partner in the flow while trying his best to remember what he had learnt about the waltz back in his fledgling years. 

Perhaps he concentrates too much on what move he needs to do that he doesn’t recognize the next dance partner he has after the switch until a hand has already settled on his own. 

His eyes widen at the sight, mind scrambling for ideas to slip away and excuse himself from dancing with someone whose presence can probably turn his thoughts into mush. Claude stops his worry by a simple weight on his shoulder and a squeeze to his hand. These gestures are almost reassuring if he hasn’t caught sight of the omega’s teasing smirk. 

They’re missing beats, his head reminds urgently and he places a hesitant hand on the other’s waist - a featherlight touch. "It is considered rude to let go of someone in the middle of the dance, your princeliness" Claude says, suddenly, and goddess he is not ready to have a conversation right now. Righting himself as best as he could without making a fool out of himself further, he takes the first step back into the rhythm as the music changes. 

"Is this your plan all along, Claude?" he says, counting the steps he has to take before following through. He thinks that the slightly faster beat from the song will serve as a good distraction, but Claude steals his focus the moment he opens his mouth, "Nope, it must be fate, which has brought your hand in mine," the omega says and momentarily, he forgets what they’re currently doing. 

Claude must’ve taken pity on him when he feels him pull away for a quick turn not befitting a ballroom dance, "I kid, prince, relax, it's just one dance, I wouldn't have time to do anything while both my hands are occupied, no?" he says. Dimitri catches him, grateful for the break, but not enough to let his teasing slide. "You'd find a way without them somehow…" he says wryly, pinching the omega's side. Not hard enough to bruise, but painful enough for a warning. 

The yelp Claude emits is enough consolation at the very least. 

They fall into routine quickly after. With each movement, he finds himself thinking less and less about what comes next and lets his feet lead by memory. It probably helps that Claude somehow smells sharper; still spicy, but soft and sweeter; it’s _calming_. 

"Heard your class is going to handle security on the Goddess tower," the omega suddenly says and he scarcely remembers the step forward not being this many, "...the girls from my class are excited about the rumors regarding that tower" he continues while Dimitri struggles to process two informations all at once - they nearly crash to the nearest couple for goddess’s sake. 

Once those difficult parts are done, he finally processes the remark Claude casually spoke before coming up with a reply, "So are they in my house, I couldn't find it in myself to appreciate the romance they spoke so highly about the tower" he says, sighing as he recalls Anette’s excited gush. His partner laughs, pulls away for another improvised pivot - that he has to catch, goddess help him- and says as he returns, “Have anyone to meet up there?” 

‘No’ is his immediate thought, but he mulls it over again and eventually says, "I do not think it's appropriate to court someone during the school year, we have our studies and future preparation to busy ourselves with". 

There are these responsibilities which come with his name and the title he bears that he couldn’t afford to ignore. Claude should’ve shared this sentiment as he, too, bears a similar title. “Yeah, we’d be too busy being nose deep in test materials, I suppose,” the omega says, agreeing, “...but what about the lesser rumor that it could grant your wish?” 

“If life is that easy, then I suppose people could obtain each of their dreams with a prayer” he says without thinking. 

Because it’s true. 

Because if wishes can be so easily granted by going somewhere on a particular date, then everyone wouldn’t struggle so much just to survive. 

Because if the Goddess Tower can fulfill a wish, he would be there, praying devotedly for his own to come true. He tried that before. it didn't work. 

“I...” he says, daring not to meet the other’s eyes, “...I...apologize that was, uh, rather uncouth of me” 

Claude doesn’t reply to him. 

They finish the rest of the dance routine in relative silence. He contemplates on starting a conversation, anything light that could brighten the mood he has dragged them both into. But he finds nothing remotely lighthearted and short enough to accompany them during the last stretch of the dance. 

As the music trails off, leaving that soft interval for the next song to come in, Claude intrudes into his private space - this is definitely not in the dance steps he had learnt - and grins. His scent floats around him, soothing and teasing all at once as his lips brushes close to his ears, 

“I'll see you in the Goddess Tower, Dimitri” 

Then, all too soon, the scent pulls away. He stares unseeingly at the pair of green eyes - is that a wink - and Claude is soon lost in the flurry of students changing their dance partners. He absentmindedly places a hand on his left cheek - where his left ear is most definitely flushed - and politely refuses the hand offered toward him. 

He... 

...needs a minute to process this. 

* * *

To his surprise, professor Byleth is out in the hallway, looking at the night sky with unreadable emotions on their face. They have always been indifferent, though tonight, they looked even less fathomable - almost inhuman. He clears his throat to signal his arrival and they peer over their shoulder, greenish blue eyes meet his own blue ones. 

"Too much?" Professor Byleth says, asking more than what they have voiced. He smiles meekly at the question and nods, "Too much" he says, legs moving to occupy the empty spot beside his homeroom teacher. The two break their eye contact in favor of observing the starry sky wordlessly. 

They fall quiet, a sort of contemplative silence where thoughts are louder than voices. 

"Did you...dance with Claude?" 

He nearly snaps his head to face the professor. Though he catches himself and inhales deeply, “I...” he says, not quite knowing yet what to follow the single word with, “...yes, he is a rather...enthusiastic partner” 

Professor Byleth doesn’t express their emotion through the twitch of their lips nor the furrow of their eyebrows. They convey everything through their wordings; the subtle change in inflection and pauses between words. He learns to understand at least a few ranges of emotions from this simple difference in how his teacher speaks. 

“He’s the one who dragged me for a dance,” they say - amused, not angry, “...and apparently...I have two left foot, so to speak” 

A laugh falls off his lips, “And you’ve trained Dedue to victory” he says. Not as mockery, just a simple implication of praise. 

“That, I did” the professor says, childishly proud. 

And he laughs louder. 

A soft chuckle nearly catches him off guard and he lowers his own voice to see the homeroom teacher his class has been with for half a year. There is a smile on Professor Byleth’s face; small, tiny, a mere quirk of one corner of their lips, yet it is full of meaning. Once they both stop, the smile lingers on each of their respective face and Dimitri feels at complete ease. 

“Are you going to meet him?” the professor says. 

“Who?” 

“Claude?” 

“Wha--” he says, bewildered, “...what makes you think of that?” 

“A hunch” professor Byleth says, shrugging. 

_A bit too close to home for a hunch_

"He did invite me, though I have yet to decide on indulging his wish or not" he says, averting his gaze from the professor's. No, not an invitation, even, Claude has phrased the sentence as if Dimitri would definitely come. Not 'if', but 'when'.

The professor hums as he muses and says, with more conviction than he would ever have, "You're not even considering _not_ to go" 

Dimitri has met perceptive people before, but what the professor is displaying right now borderlines clairvoyance. He closes his eyes, reasserting his thoughts, "Why are you so convinced about that?" he asks. 

The look on Professor Byleth somehow softens; a rarity from someone who's used to embody the rumor of an emotionless demon who killed without remorse. "You like being near him. He makes you calm" they say; a simple answer to represent a complicated thought.

"So could you, or even Dedue or--" 

"No, no, not that kind of calm," professor Byleth says. For a moment, they pause, thoughtfully musing to themselves, before they open their mouth and says, "...Claude makes you...peaceful" with this certain finality in their voice.

Peaceful?

"Peaceful?" he repeats dumbly.

“Or maybe you’d prefer serene? Comfortable? I suppose none of those words could really describe that delicate look on your face” they say, stroking their chin, “...I’ll settle with peaceful, yes, you look really peaceful whenever he’s around”

( **Or hypnotized, no? You always seem so out of it when that little omega is around** )

He brushes the voices away, “He...does have a calming scent,” Dimitri says, “...even Edelgard is affected by his scent, maybe it’s because he smells really, uh, good?” he says the last part in a quieter voice, unsure if the professor shares his biased opinion.

Professor Byleth stares at him; knowing and mirthful before they let out a chuckle. With a gentle hand they pat him on the shoulder as they walk back toward the main hall, whispering clearly when they pass, “Shouldn’t you go up there?” 

And there’s this smile - soft and kind - on their face that he could only see for a split second before they leave.

He watches the former mercenary's back until they disappear behind the door before he finally moves.

* * *

He sees Claude before the other sees him. The omega is looking up at the stars - or perhaps, moon - seemingly lost in thoughts. Claude looks relaxed, unguarded even, that he almost feels bad to call out for his name. 

It's strange seeing the other house leader alone. Claude is always with the company of others, radiating light and warmth. His grin is contagious and those green eyes are often inquisitive as he listens to whoever he's currently speaking with.

Here, he looks lonely.

And it's weird associating that word with Claude. Unfitting.

He shakes this train of thoughts and chooses to approach instead. Which is when the omega suddenly throws his head backward - a dangerous stunt - and nearly bumps their head together. A yelp flutters out of his lips in surprise before he notices Claude jerking forward and his instinct pushes him to reach for the other’s flailing hand. 

Heart thumping loudly against his chest, he pulls Claude over and away from the bridge quicker than he ever tried when handling another human being before. He peers over at the omega halfway sprawling on the ground. They both are panting, flushed red in the face from adrenaline.

To his dismay, Claude laughs - albeit breathlessly - and says, "My prince in shining armor…" and Dimitri's lips tugged into a frown because this is really not the time for jokes and name-calling, he almost-- "...thank you, Dimitri…" Claude follows softly, almost inaudibly. He chokes on his own words, sputters something unintelligible out of his mouth and stops speaking altogether.

 _Calm down_ he wills himself to and fails spectacularly.

“Goddess Claude...” he says instead, too agitated to put together any other words. His worry is met with a silly grin and twinkling eyes; a face he couldn’t exactly stay mad at for long. 

Gently, he tugs the other to stand, keeping an eye out to watch for a limp or any visible wound. "I hope you understand how reckless you've been" he scolds, not unlike reprimanding a child.

Only Claude would have the audacity to simply laugh at the prospect of his own death, "Yes, of course, your princeliness, do not worry, won't do it again, I'll be real good" the omega says, dragging the last word unnecessarily long. This reply serves to deepen his frown. His mind searches for another appropriate scolding when he is tugged back to the bridge. 

Where Claude almost slipped to his death.

Dimitri is sure he's making this disappointed face as Claude plops back to his former seat. The other ignores him and with one hand, pulls at him to do the same. Not forceful, yet he complies anyway despite his initial protest. 

"And you didn't learn at all!" he says, exasperated.

Claude's smirk widens, "But now I have you watching where my feet are so I won't worry" he says with ease. Like he has practiced this line just in case. It flusters him all the same and he promptly turns away from the stare he's receiving. 

Thankfully, Claude stops poking fun at him and flicks his gaze back at the sky. He follows his lead and stares at the constellations of stars. It is beautiful - the night sky, that is. Without any cloud obstructing their view, the stars and the moon could show off their celestial beauty in soft glow. They're not obtrusive like the glaring sun on a hot day, easy in the eyes of any observer.

Claude's scent doesn't intrude this peace either. He could smell it, yes, their shoulders are pressed to one another. But it's not invasive, not pushy like others' scent who demands his undivided attention.

….

Perhaps Professor Byleth is right.

"Can I have your words that what I've said tonight shall never be revealed to anybody else?"

That...isn't what he thought Claude would say.

Questions immediately fill his head, though he pushes it back as he begs his tongue not to spill. Instead, he meets Claude’s gaze and nods. There’s appreciation in the omega’s eyes as his reply is answered with an equally firm nod. His eyes are still trained at the other’s form when Claude casts his gaze back to the sky and inhales.

"I want to tear down the walls in Fodlan" Claude says, an unwitting smile pulled at his lips, "...both literally and figuratively" the omega turns his attention back to him when he says this. 

His head races to understand what he meant by those words. Tearing down walls in Fodlan could mean many things. The borders between the three ruling nations in Fodlan? The difference between nobles and commoners? Or…

"Are you...talking about the Fodlan's Throat…" he says; not a question, but a confirmation. It makes sense, isn’t it? Claude had been fascinated by his own dream for Duscur and the kingdom. He wants Fodlan to open their borders to the outside world. And Fodlan’s Throat is one of the closest things to a physical gate between Fodlan and outsiders - Almyra, he thinks of the old yellowing map sitting on the corner of his room.

A proud look passes Claude’s face, "Sharp guess, your princeliness" he says and Dimitri feels himself puff his chest instinctively. This revelation, however, also brings more questions to the back of his mind. They push at his control, attempting to wrench it away from him so he could ask and quell the overwhelming curiosity. 

He pushes back, commands them to shut up and let Claude speak when he’s ready to.

“Your dream is with Duscur and Fodlan,” Claude says, “...mine is with the prejudice against the outsider”

Almyra has never been described as kind whenever someone tells a story within the border of Fodlan. An Alliance merchant once told him about how war-hungry they are. Their courts are filled with heirs killing one another to prove their capability to become king. Warriors battled each other to quench their thirst for blood. 

They didn't stop with Almyra. There's the tale about the barbaric Sreng or distant Brigid. Sometimes they spoke of Dagda and Duscur. Other times they returned to weave stories about Morfis out there across the ocean. 

He is skeptical of the merchants' words, obviously. But he has no means to know the truth behind it. How much of it is the truth and which one is the lie? 

Claude intends to abolish these kinds of presumptions. He wants Fodlan to try and find it out themselves, not hide behind a wall and pretend that they know everything they need to know about nations they’ve never visited. 

"You wish to break Fodlan's Throat simply for the sake of mingling Fodlan and those who reside outside our borders" he says, giving words to Claude’s dream. 

It is an idealistic dream, one that could divide Fodlan into two; those who enthusiastically open up and those who vehemently refuse to change their old way. A dream that could potentially destroy Fodlan from within, especially if expressed by a future heir such as he. Shouldn’t Claude know of the consequence?

He meets Claude’s eyes, searching through their depth to find hesitation, anything that would signify doubts. When he finds none, he opens his mouth and says, "It could incite war" 

A warning.

"Or it could make a better Fodlan, who knows?" Claude says, shrugging in his usual nonchalant manner. 

And Dimitri finds himself believing those words. That if _someone_ could convince - or trick - Fodlan to try and open up, it would be _Claude_. He’s quite frightened that the idea of supporting this notion doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Faerghus _is_ quite a stickler for tradition and he, by duty, should have obeyed its rules. 

Yet if Claude asks him to try and open up the kingdom’s borders one day--

_He would feel inclined to say yes, wouldn’t he?_

“I’m not here to ask for your help, dear prince,” Claude says, as a strange, controlled smirk makes its way to his face, "...you’ve told me your vision for the future before, so I felt like sharing a bit of what I’m planning for days to come" 

He notices the fidgeting, the nervous tremble at the edge of Claude's voice and wonders if the Riegan heir ever opens up to anyone about this dream. Claude's always been with anyone, providing people with his own two cents or jabs while listening to their trouble, surely someone's bound to offer their ears for him?

~~_Those questions he asked Claude. About his personal life, about his goal, about his childhood days. Had...Claude ever answered him back?_ ~~

But...if by any chance that he's the first to generously lend an ear, then he's privileged, very much so.

This amount of trust warms his heart. He knows it is a nearly impossible dream, but he has known Claude for his tenacity and eagerness to learn everything. “Your dream would either doom Fodlan or change it for the better,” he says, laying out the fact, “...yet I find myself believing that if it could happen for the better, it would, especially by your cunning mind” he ends with his own opinion. It's biased, sure, but he has his reason.

Claude's laugh rings like a clear bell and he enjoys the sound, “Should I feel flattered or insulted by your praise, your highness?” the omega asks.

It is a genuine praise, “Take it as you like, Claude, I’d rather keep to myself the reason behind my wordings" he says instead.

Judging by how the omega brightens, he knows that Claude understands. Though he feigns ignorance and chooses to preoccupy his sight with the starry sky.

No words are exchanged during the rest of the night as they spend it simply relishing in each other's presence. 

The voices are quiet, muted by Claude's soft breathing beside him. For once, he closes his eyes and finds nothing. Not even a glimpse of blood and fire or the hands grasping at his throat asking him to kill. 

A sudden weight on his shoulder surprises him and he looks down, catching sight of Claude’s messy hair tickling his cheek. His scent softly caresses him; warm and comfortable. Like sitting in front of a fireplace, he remarks. 

In this short moment, he really feels at peace.

* * *

It might be silly, he stands there, smiling among the Blue Lions as they laugh and cheer around him.

But it's a promise he wants to keep.

_Let's meet again here...in 5 years_

* * *

They could’ve prevented this.

He watches as professor Byleth cradles the body of their father; blood pooling beneath him, staining their gauntlet red. Around him, the Blue Lions are stunned to silence. Not even the cheerful Anette says any words as she presses herself close to Mercedes, trembling. They all had seen what had happened. It was too fast, the end of a life that is. He should’ve known, he’d taken lives before.

But those that he killed had always been a faceless enemy; people standing at the opposing side in the battlefield. Those who had done wrong and needed to be stopped.

( **You’re lucky you didn’t get to see the death, only the aftermath** someone purrs, **you closed your eyes to the brutal truth, forever losing sight of the tragedy only to sear the smells and screams into your soul instead** )

The first pitter patter of rain comes when he hears the beginning of a sob from their professor. 

He looks up at the graying sky. Perhaps this is a small mercy for professor Byleth - the rain masking their cries as the sky mourns with them. How dramatic the world has become, he thinks bitterly. 

The Blue Lion never leaves, silently standing stalwart from a distance, watching their teacher shed tears. Each of his classmates faithfully waits, not even flinching when the rain grows heavier, louder. The snowstorm in Faerghus is harsher than this.

Eventually, it passes and with it, something inside the professor vanishes.

His eyes widen when the professor stands, carrying Jeralt’s body with them delicately as if they’re carrying the most fragile gemstone in their arms. Their face isn’t unreadable in that moment and he recognizes the look on their face. 

Bitter.

Anger.

_Vengeful._

“Let’s go back” the professor says coldly and he shudders.

The rain has stopped, but professor Byleth smells like the wet charred field and fresh blood.

* * *

“The Goddess, Sothis has chosen you, professor” lady Rhea says, smiling reverently at their professor. They look at her impassively, lips forced into a tight line as if they want to speak yet choose not to. Bowing their head, they turn away, shining mint hair bobbing as they pass the double door. 

He chooses not to mention that their smell has disappeared along with the corpse of their father’s killer.

* * *

Claude is standing by the door to his room when he returns in the evening that day. The other house leader is smiling as he usually does, toothy grin and everything. Though he immediately notices how the omega fidgets restlessly, leaning from one foot to another. 

“I might have a pretty big favor to ask you, your princeliness” Claude starts, shifting to his left foot.

He smiles and says, “What do you need, Claude?”

“Can I borrow one of your stuff?”

A quill? A book? Had he missed his notes during one of the shared lectures? Perhaps an empty scroll for him to peruse? 

“And it should have your scent, preferably one that you always wear so it’ll last longer”

 _That_ makes his whole thought stops.

What?

_What?_

“What?” he says. Dumbly.

An awkward grin settles on Claude’s face, “It’s for next week, I will be...‘preoccupied’ for a while,” he says, emphasizing one certain word, “...I’ll return it after it is washed, don’t worry”

But, why?

“Why?” sputters out of his lips without consent.

As if a switch has been flipped, Claude’s lips tugged into a mischievous grin. He gulps, not knowing what to think of the sudden shift in emotion. Though he really does have a bad feeling that whatever’s going to come out of that mouth would be horrible. To his horror, Claude winks and opens his mouth, “Well, surely your highness knows that I need it to--”

He slaps a hand over the other’s lips.

The amused look on Claude’s face can only be interpreted as ‘What do you think I’m going to say?’ and his cheeks color. Stutters tumble out of his lips as he manages to form comprehensible words of, “I… apologize...it's, I acted without thinking”. Then, he lifts his hand away from the other’s lips. There’s a smug smile on those lips so he tries not to meet Claude’s gaze.

There’s a momentary pause.

Counting to ten, he finally opens his mouth to speak when the other beats him to it, “Because it would comfort me”

He snaps his head up to face Claude, eyes widening. That must be a joke, right? 

Yet Claude shows him a rather contemplative smile, a far cry from the previous playful persona he always slips into.

Comforting would be the last word he labels his scent with, that’s for sure. He knows from his classmates how he smells like - “Lemon ice shave” one of them has exclaimed out of a joke - but he never had sniffed it himself. Judging by how awkward people tend to be with him, he has chalked it up to his scent being too overbearing.

Apparently, Claude thinks otherwise.

And he wants one of his belonging; one which bears his scent to take with during his--

 _Breathe_...

It’s okay, he coughs to his fist.

He could do this.

Shakily, he reaches the clasp on his left shoulder, fumbling a bit as he tries to unclasp it. The click somehow sounds louder than he remembers it to be, echoing across the narrow hallway of their dorm rooms. Then, with one single pull, he slips the blue cape over his shoulder and folds it as neatly as he could. 

“You...don’t have to return it” he finds himself saying when he offers the fabric to Claude.

There’s an uncharacteristic faint blush on Claude’s face when he beams at the offer. The omega thanks him sincerely as he accepts it and disappears into the room with his cape - not before giving him another wink and playful taps on his shoulder. He remains there, dazed, until a click from the furthest door snaps him into attention. Sylvain pokes out of his room, smirking knowingly at him. His ears feel like they’re burning as he pretends nothing has happened.

“Is...something wrong, Sylvain?” he says, smiling.

“Nothing is wrong, your highness,” the red head sing-songs, “...congratulations on the proposal though, when’s the wedding?”

Dimitri chokes on his own reply.

* * *

_Edelgard is the Flame Emperor_

He looks at the face behind the mask. Violet eyes, fair skin and a determined frown stares back at him. A dagger rests on her hips, concealed beneath the thick cloak though he'd seen the weapon before she could cover it back. _Edelgard_ , he confirms and a sneer pulls at his lips. Someone has taken hold of his arm before he could make his move. It’s weak, he notices. Without looking back, he shrugs it off and moves forward. Soldiers from the Empire steps in front of him, bravely protecting that vermin of a monster behind them.

A swipe from his spear is enough to slice them apart.

( **Good, good, spill their blood, drench the earth with their sinful blood,** they speak in unison, empowering his resolve, **give them what they deserve. Kill them, kill them, killthemkillkillKiLlkILl--** )

More soldiers march toward him - to their death. He falls them one by one, staining his spear redder as he steps closer and closer toward the monster from his past. Edel-- no, the **Flame Emperor** stands unflinchingly at his assault. How arrogant of that monster...Oh, right, he would make her _flinch_.

His spear sails through the air and the Flame Emperor finally shifts. The bloody tip grazes her cheek, leaving a single red line across the pale cheek. Their eyes finally meet; dim blue against widened purple. A foolish soldier dives into his line of view, brandishing a sword. 

He grabs the fool’s neck, hears the gurgled scream as he slams his hand down to the ground, splattering the skull against the floor and snapping the soldier’s neck. Another soldier hesitates beside him, trembling in unadulterated fear as they try to correctly wield the spear in their hands. His hand grasped their face, prompting a yelp.

( **Crush them** someone hisses in delight)

Blood splatters against his cheek when their head crushes beneath his fingers.

The Flame Emperor clenches her jaws and opens her mouth. A name, he registers as he continues, flinging her pawns left and right. They are desperate, frightened, but they are devoted, he admits that much. To die for a monster, how pitiful. 

Someone appears behind the Flame Emperor, one single pale green eye meets his own for a flitting second.

Then they disappear; the Flame Emperor and her faithful servant.

( **Coward!** , they scream)

“Coward!” he echoes through gritted teeth.

( **Move, Dimitri** , a sharp command, **find that girl and sever her head** )

“Dimitri, stop!”

There are fingers around his wrist, someone is pulling him and he pulls back. He has no time for distraction, his hand grips at the fingers to pry it apart. “Stop!” the voice is as firm as those stubborn fingers and he angrily turns to face whoever is trying to stand between him and his goal. Mint green eyes, furrowed eyebrows, and a deep frown - a familiar face.

“Professor…?”

( **Move** )

He swivels his head toward the stairs once more, wincing when the sudden movement earns him a whiplash. _The Flame Emperor is getting away, she’s running away, why aren’t you moving?_

“Yeah, it’s me” the professor says, their fingers clasped around his wrist.

He takes a deep, _deep_ breath before carefully, he pushes words out of his tongue, “She’s getting away, professor, I have to find her” his voice is shaky with barely contained fury. 

“You are not pursuing her alone, Dimitri. We’re returning to the academy now” they say and he opens his mouth to yell at them of how foolish that decision is when their professor fixes him with a sharp glare. He is reminded of the fingers around his wrist, unmoving, despite his own attempt to tear it apart, “You’re returning to the academy, Dimitri, teacher’s order” they say and it's final.

( **No, you are not! Move, chase that monster and kill her** )

He closes his eyes, lets the voices bang against his head until they retreat to the back of his mind, hissing and growling, but quieter if only for a while. When he opens his eyes, the blazing fury beneath his chest has settled into a simmering fire. It wouldn’t leave, not until he has his fingers around the Flame Emperor’s neck.

But until then.

“Yes...professor...”

He could play along.

* * *

“Are you sure you’re alright, your highness?”

( **Kill her** )

“I...didn’t see you at lunch, today, are you not hungry?”

( **KiLL hEr** )

“Great, you’re finally showing your true color, boar”

“Felix!”

( **RIp heR hEAd oFf Of Her neCk** )

“Dimitri, clear your head before today’s training”

( **...ANd HanG IT on HEr cAStle wALL** )

“.......”

“It’s lunch, please do eat it”

( **MakE HER PaY** )

“How are you doing, your highness?”

The voice quiets abruptly and for the first time, their voices did not overlap with whoever is sitting right beside him. His nose catches the scent next and he refuses to revel on its soothing effect. 

“I will kill her” hisses out of his lips.

“Yes, yes, murder and bloodshed, what’s new when we’re faced with an inevitable war”

He grits his teeth, the beginning of a growl lodges at the back of his throat. How dare he thinks lightly about this? Why can’t he take this seriously? A series of ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ muddle his thought to the point that it _hurts_. His lips start to fall open to say each and every bitter question. What comes out of his mouth is a warning instead.

A warning that Claude ignores with concern for Dimitri’s own well-being of all things.

Before he could stop himself, his right hand has grabbed the omega’s shoulder. As his eyes meet the other’s pair, his mouth opens and his reason flows. Edelgard must die for her sins. And he would deliver her to the flames himself if no one would.

There’s no reply for a moment from Claude.

Then, calmly, the omega speaks. One question.

 _Was it really Edelgard?_

And he denies it vehemently, shaking his head as he throws such possibility away from his mind, “A criminal would never confess to their crime willingly,” he says, recalling Edelgard’s face behind the mask; cold, stoic, almost _unfeeling_ , “I’ll pry it out of her dying mouth eventually”

Claude shifts uneasily under his touch and a fleeting concern passes beneath his chest. 

He doesn’t act on it.

“Then what makes you different than the council you hated for accusing Duscur without listening to your words?” Claude says.

For a flicker of a second, he seesred.

A visible wince flits on the omega’s face and he knows that he has hurt him, but his fingers do not relent. Instead, his mouth opens as a curt, “I saw her that day” tumbles out of him. Oh, he remembers it clear as day; her mask coldly gazes at the destruction around her, her form standing tall between the burnt snowfield. 

The Flame Emperor. Edelgard. Behind her mask she saw the destruction she had caused, in sadistic glee or cold indifference, he couldn’t tell. The mask had denied him any knowledge of what she had felt. Right, he thinks to himself, it’s her. He saw the Flame Emperor in Duscur…

_But when?_

This train of thought _burns_ when he follows it. _When had he seen the Flame Emperor?_ a headache pounds against his head and he pushes the question away.

Duscur, he forces his mind to think of. The scent, his thought says, the scent of burning flesh and field and the wet snow colored in red. His nose couldn’t smell anything else but what he had smelled that day.

_Everyone smells like Duscur, ~~except Claude~~_

“As a fourteen year old flame emperor?” 

In that moment, he wishes Claude would just stop talking. He’s laughing afterwards, control slipping between his semblance of calm as he grasps desperately onto that truth he wants to believe. That Edelgard is the Flame Emperor and she’s the one responsible for everything. 

That she’s the one he has to kill to shut the voice inside his head..

_Please, Claude...he begs desperately, please just stop asking questions_

Yet Claude keeps on pushing - asks him to think it through, to consider every possibility. But why? Why would he be so insistent to protect Edelgard? Is he feeling sentimental? Have the last few months truly convinced him that she is not the Flame Emperor?

 _Why are you protecting her?_ He asks soundlessly, pulling Claude until they’re eye to eye with questions burning in his mind _why couldn’t you see?_ the question echoes as he searches those green orbs for hesitation, for anything at all other than the silent understanding look he receives. But nothing is changed among those eyes, not even a hint of fear. 

_Please..._ he begs as his conviction falters, _please stop…_

He doesn’t realize that he is sobbing until his face is buried into the other’s shoulder. Unconsciously, he presses deeper, seeking the pleasing scent like a moth to flame. There's a hand stroking the nape of his neck and another holding his waists. His mouth opens against the soft skin, “They’re counting on me...” he says finally, defeated, “...if I don’t have Edelgard’s head, who would avenge the dead that were sacrificed that day?” 

Who else he could kill to fulfill their demand? Who else could kill to avenge those who had died but him?

Claude hums as the hand on his nape moves up to slide between his locks. “The burden of the past shouldn’t be placed upon those who live for the future...” Claude says, “...a very determined prince once told me that exact sentence”

 _A prince who had yet to know the truth_ , he thinks bitterly, _an oblivious fool_

The fingers on his hair lightly scrape his scalp, soothing, it almost lulls him, “You live for a dream, dear prince, and for that you live for the future. Not just yours, but also the rest of Faerghus. Wouldn’t you also honor the dead by achieving a future they couldn’t?”

They've said...he would honor their wish if he takes the path of revenge. That they would be appeased if he burnt those who had burnt their carcasses. Their voices are still there, waiting until he finishes his sole duty. Stalling his hand and forgiving that monster wouldn't honor the dead; it would enrage them.

His lips part before he could stop himself, to speak, to tell about these mind-wrenching voices inside his head. 

"But they wanted me to--"

Claude presses his head, muffling the rest of his speech to the warm skin beneath him. 

Then, for the first time, he feels the controlled anger beneath Claude's voice. The smell around him sharpens when he feels the vibration from Claude's neck, “Whoever they are, they’re a terrible influence to a great individual and I would shoot them in the face for saying otherwise”

 _You couldn't shoot those who have died..._ he wants to say, _you can't shoot those voices out of my head_ his heart screams.

But he hadn't even heard them...had he? Since Claude plopped himself beside him and that first question was spoken, they have seemingly disappeared.

_He makes you calm, peaceful_

The moment Claude arrives, they have gone quiet. Silent.

_The voices are always quiet when Claude is by his side._

When Claude's grip loosens, he doesn't let go. Merely shifting so they could be seated more comfortably and tightens his own hold.

They stay like that until morning comes. The priests are surprised to see them huddled together on the cathedral's bench. They are quickly being sent to their respective rooms and he reluctantly lets go of Claude.

~~And their voices scream at him the moment he closes the door~~

* * *

He's blinded by rage when the Empire finally attacks. 

He sees Edelgard and tears through the battlefield, screaming. Their voices are roaring behind him, moving him forward, intertwining with his own.

Then, everything goes

.  
.  
.

.

_quiet._

* * *

( **You failed** it says, cold and merciless. It's a judgement; undeniable and true, one that he bears the responsibility of accepting. One that he would carry until the day he could finish what they had started. Even if it costs him his own life.

 _I will not fail again_ he says under his breath as he draws his knees closer together. 

There's a scoff in his head, then, one of them purrs into his ears. **But you couldn't come back from this, little princeling** a ghostly touch hovers over his right eye, or where it should be, **locked in a cage like an animal, while your, no, our country is getting twisted to that monster's liking**

The pain beneath his skull renews and he cradles his head with a hand. It hurts, he breathes in, smelling the burnt moss and blood. _There...there must be a way. I can fix this. I can, don't worry, I can and--_ his breath hitches when a shadow looms over him. One blue eye flicking up to see whoever has stood in front of his cell. The figure is standing firm before the bar, clutching a spear he faintly recognizes. A dead body is lying by their feet, the ground beneath it slowly turns red--)

Staring unseeingly through his single eye, he hears the sturdy lock clicks open and Dedue's voice breaks through the cacophony of his mind for once.

"Let's go, your highness"

* * *

The first time Dedue lies to him, it’s in one single sentence:

"Go, I'll follow"

And he believes it like a fool.

* * *

He wanders aimlessly across Faerghus. From one forest to a frozen lake, to the hills. He never stops unless his body truly refuses to move an inch. He avoids town like a plague and hides among nature when a merchant’s group passes by. If he’s hungry, he hunts; wild games are aplenty in the kingdom’s territory and he’s sure no one would miss one or two. 

( **You’re going the wrong way, boy** )

During nights, he tries not to fall asleep. He stays vigilant until dawn, denying the nightmares that will haunt him if he dares close his eye. The lack of sleep doesn’t bother him, he’s gone three days without before, he’s sure he can do so now. Constantly. 

His only consolation is the fact that these nightmares, all these whispers - and yells and cries and screams - come without a scent.

( **So you’re running away, now? I thought you are no coward, little princeling** )

Even if he falls asleep, it’s in short naps - restless. The slightest noise would wake him and he would refuse to sleep for days after. Sometimes he scratches over the fabric covering where his right eye is supposed to be to keep him awake. Better to be reminded of reality than confuses them with any dream.

( **Oh, good, you are at least still vigilant. Wouldn't it be funny if they find his royal highness dead in a ditch somewhere?** )

When he comes to, his feet have taken him somewhere familiar.

( **Here? Of all places? Why not Enbarr? Preferably with your hand around that monster’s tHRoAT--** )

Perhaps it is instinct, or perhaps somewhere, at the back of his mind - muffled by the screams and the demands - he remembers that silly promise they made. How long has it been since then? He wobbles through the dusty ruins, dragging his spear as he makes his way to the broken gate. 

( **Is it really the right time to be sentimental? Wouldn’t it be wiser for you to swallow those unnecessary emotions?** )

What used to be a crowded street where merchant congregates now there are broken stalls and abandoned items covered in cobwebs and thick dusts. He gives them a cursory glance and moves on; the musty smell is tickling his nose. The previously proud double door to the reception hall is broken in half. What’s left of it rots from rain and wind, nature taking over what was hers.

He walks past it without another glance. 

( **Are you really grasping on that flimsy promise years ago?** )

The monastery is in shambles, broken pillars, rotting doors and crawling vines pushing through the cracks on the stone wall. He doesn’t stop to check for the damage, ignoring the small animals scattering upon hearing his heavy footfall. Their small feet are tapping across the broken path before disappearing between rustles of grass. 

( **No one would be there** it whispers insidiously and he doesn’t even flinch at how abrupt it had spoken. **Your professor is dead, your vassal executed in your place, your friends gone due to your incompetence, you have no one to help you right now** )

It’s a long walk across the bridge. The wind is whipping across his face - cold - and the rest of the world seems so far away below him. He sets his head straight forward, seeing the iron gate has been opened wide, as if it intends to welcome him back. Snorting, he moves further in, slipping to the cathedral. 

( **Are you going to pray? To beg for the goddess's help? There is an extent to foolishness and you are tipping over it** )

Unsurprisingly, the cathedral is in equal ruin as the rest of the monastery. The once proud statue had been broken to pieces. Colorful glass pieces from the beautiful mosaic window scatter across the ground, glinting under the light which is slipping in between the cracks on the ceiling.

His feet stop right before the broken statue. He looks up - to the half broken face of the goddess staring emptily at what was once her holy sanctuary. Without words, he takes a seat right there under her indifferent gaze facing the gaping entrance.

( **You’re going to sit idly by? To wait until they come like a naive fool? Surely you’re not that dumb?** )

No, he is not naive enough to think that they would come here. He shifts on his seat and props the relic in his hands to lean against his frame. Like a sentinel guarding over nothingness. Then, his gaze turns at the wide open door of the cathedral.

_But is it so wrong to hang onto a hope however pitiful it may seem?_

* * *

> _As far as his memories go, he was always fond of the scent his nose is capable of catching. It's an ingrained trait which came with his secondary gender, true, but even his father had remarked about his excellent nose. ‘That nose would help you a lot when it comes to your time to navigate among the court’ his father said._

He smells them first before he hears them. They smell like metal and burnt oil, something he’s closely acquainted with. There are two of them, marching forward to climb up the steps leading to the cathedral. Their scents are mellowed out, not pushing nor aggravating. It is simply there. Neutral.

Once they reach the top, it changes.

> _Felix was actually the first friend he truly had. His brother was a close second as Duke Fraldarius often brought them during their diplomacy visit once they both are of age. He was always wary of the older Fraldarius, stating that he smelt like whetstone and something metallic. Glenn had laughed and told him that he’s a knight in training._
> 
> _In contrast, Felix smells like snowdrop and peppermint; pleasant. He liked being near the other and in return Felix clung onto him whenever they’re together._

They scream in surprise, accusing fingers pointing at him. Their scents intensify as they unsheathe their respective weapon: a sword for one and an axe for the other. Metal boots clanking loudly against the floor as he pulls his spear to wield. His single eye is fixated at their movement, the red fabric of their tunic contrasting the cool gray of their armor.

Those are the empire knight armors they wear.

> _The first time he met Sylvain, he was sure that the other was a girl parading around like a boy because he smelt like an assortment of sweets. Which earned him a confused laughter as the younger Gautier fumbled for an answer. Beside him, the older Gautier scoffed and told him to straighten things up confidently._
> 
> _He couldn’t find it in himself to really like Miklan because his smell was always so sharp, pungent even. It reminded him of the forgery and how it will clung onto your clothes for hours even after you’re away from its furnace. Perhaps he was too proud of his Alpha status, which had earned him his own right as heir despite his lack of crest._

One of them is quickly impaled by his spear and while the other staggers due to his newly founded fear, Dimitri has snatched the axe from his loosening grip and chops off his right arm. The soldier’s scream is only cut short when his head is parted from his neck.

He picks up their weapons and keeps it beside him. They would be useful if anyone dared to poke their head in here cluelessly. There's no need to sully Areadbhar with their dirty blood further if he can help it.

> _Ingrid wasn't even supposed to meet him when they met for the first time. It was during his visit to Fraldarius territory and he had been wandering around to find Glenn or Felix. He spotted the former on the courtyard, sitting beside a blond haired girl who seemed to be his age. Naively, he had thought that the scene he had stumbled into was nothing but friends talking with one another._
> 
> _The girl seemed tensed when he called out to Glenn. She nervously looked at the older Fraldarius, asking for explanation when he provided it himself. It didn't alleviate her stiffness, but her rain-like scent mellowed if only for a bit._
> 
> _When Felix later told him that she's Glenn's fiance, he was predictably flabbergasted._

Another group comes marching toward the cathedral. From the strength of their stench and the sound of their boots, he would guess there would be a small squad. Since the two previous scouts have failed to come back, a team must've been sent here to investigate their missing comrades.

He doesn't even let them cry when they die.

> _His father brought home a kind-looking woman to the kingdom. Along with her was a girl with brown hair and impeccable manner. She smells like a flower field; not singular, but a whole bouquet and strangely she didn’t smell sharp. Every time he accidentally stuttered or made a small mistake, she would chide him and corrected whatever was wrong with his action._
> 
> _Edelgard, she introduced herself confidently. He replied to her with a sheepish smile and took her offered hand. Then, he almost regretted it when she pulled him into a dance lesson, reprimanding him each and every step they took. It was painful to do and according to Sylvain, painful to watch as well._

More soldiers appear on the cathedral’s doorstep, armed and knowing. They know there’s a threat in the monastery and they’ve prepared quite well. It is a pity that they are marching to their death so soon after they step into the church. He notices that it takes him less and less time to kill them - almost like a second nature now. An afterthought.

They provide him with weapons and sometimes food and drinks if he's quite lucky. If he's not quite so fortunate to get any food from their corpses, he'd hunt for birds. If he’s parched, he endures it until he could get his hands on any flask the soldiers usually would have. The well sometimes provides him with rainwater as well - not clean, sometimes muddy or worse, but he doesn’t have any other choice.

It’s water. It would quench his thirst even if it tasted like dirt.

Eventually, he takes to drinking from the bucket instead of the well to at least have cleaner water to drink after he sweats through the sudden fever later.

> _Felix was the first sign that something had happened to his nose. It might be due to his grief over the loss of his brother, but Felix’s scent changed so abruptly, Dimitri had to sniff them twice before he was sure. Gone was the pleasant scent of peppermint and snowdrop, all he could smell from Felix is blood and red hot iron blade melting in the forge_
> 
> _It made him wince at first, confused and hurt without anyone close enough to comfort him. His father wasn’t there to encourage him to find out why neither was Felix who chose to mourn by himself, inside his room. Alone, after duke Fraldarius said one single wrong sentence at the wrong time._
> 
> _The duke himself smelt wrong as well; like a burning… something. Meat, perhaps? He didn’t dare put any specific word on his assumption, fearing where it would take his mind._

A whole damn platoon had decided to storm into the monastery. Granted, he might have built a reputation by killing each and every last one of those last soldiers without mercy. No survivor had managed to escape his grasp and live to tell the tale. Even if one manages to somehow slip under his watch, they would be too warped by their fear to properly convey what horror lies in wait beyond the rubble of Garreg Mach.

He doesn’t care about that. 

His body is built to kill so that’s what he does. It doesn’t even matter when he sees that these people aren’t wearing the empire armor anymore. Anyone who slips into the cathedral, either to slay him or find their missing comrades or worse, pluck a thing or two to sell for profit, they bleed red all the same in the end.

> _It finally dawned on him that something is **wrong** with his sense of smell when Sylvain’s scent did not even resemble sweets. He nearly flinched when the young Gautier placed a sympathetic hand over his shoulder and started speaking. Was it consolation? Maybe. He couldn’t even remember anything that he said, too focused on searching for Sylvain’s scent._
> 
> _His friend smelt like fresh fabric wet with blood and he wanted to scream._

They aren't quite brave enough to step into the cathedral anymore. Those who think themselves clever try to sneak from the side entrance, barging in with yellow teeth flashing and knife glinting. He thrusts Areadbhar through their stomach as a sign of respect. He lets the corpses join the rest of the pile before he finally looks at the fruit of his labour. 

The bodies are starting to pile up by now and the smell has become quite a nuisance.

He grunts in dismay before he starts pushing them out of the cathedral and into the bridge. Without hesitation whatsoever, he pushes them over the edge of the bridge, letting each and every last one of them fall into the chasm below, never to be seen again.

> _Mourning might have changed the scent, right? He asked this to himself, trying to convince himself that nothing is wrong with his nose, that everything was just because of the tragedy in Duscur, that the dead had affected them temporarily until they could get over it._
> 
> _Ingrid stood silently during the funeral procession by his side, biting her lower lip as if to hold off torrential of tears. She smelt like the mourning rain over the ashes that was once a field._

How many days have passed?

> _The voice started when he acknowledged that he would never smell any other scent aside from what he had smelt in Duscur_

He pushes another body over the bridge's railing, staring blankly as the darkness below swallows it up. It's strangely cathartic to do this, he notes and moves on to the next body.

> _Dedue smells like Duscur. Too much like the hometown his vassal has lost. But he's also an embodiment of the beginning of his dream; that anyone from Duscur could live within the kingdom's territory without being accused of crime every five steps they take._
> 
> _So he kept quiet. And Dedue too, kept quiet as if understanding._

Desperate time calls for desperate measure. That is the only fitting sentence he could give to the mages gathering at the far end of the connecting bridge. Their mouths move in tandem, as magic sparks from each of their hands. He doesn't budge from his position, merely watching.

A loud explosion doesn't faze him even a bit. Not even as the middle of the bridge starts to collapse, burnt and broken.

"Starve to death you monster!" Someone has screamed from the other side.

They don't know that the thieves would still find a way. Vermins who are not bound by honor nor moral. Those people would come if promises of untold treasures hidden deep in the ruins of the monastery are spread. And new corpses means nourishment to find and weapons for him to extend his already overdue life.

> _Meeting Edelgard for the first time after years hadn't surprised him in the slightest. She smells like the remnant of burning flowers; like layers upon layers of ashes have buried the floral scent, choked it out of existence. Her scent had become stronger, sharper and oddly grating. Alpha? His mind confusedly provided him with an answer. But how?_

Something has landed near the side entrance. He could hear the scrape of sharp talons against the stone pathway and a snort that could only belong to a beast. So he stands from where he has seated himself by the entrance of the chapel and slowly drags himself to the center before the broken goddess.

What follows are footsteps; soft, nearly silent, he almost hears nothing. Unlike those boisterous telling heavy footsteps from bandits who intend to plunder whatever’s left of these ruins. Or the clanging of metals from the soldiers carrying weapons to kill. This might be a different kind of intruder then - experienced and cautious. An assassin, perhaps?

It must’ve entered the chapel, he thinks quietly when the footsteps grow louder. He makes himself known after, dragging the blunt end of one sword he has retrieved from the last punctured corpse across the floor. There’s a controlled scramble near the side entrance as his intruder slips between the pews. 

They smell like--

_Spices: pepper and nutmeg, with an undertone of mint._

Ah…

Something is tickling at the back of his throat, bitter and dry. A laughter, he registers, and it’s coming out of his lips, tumbling uncontrollably. It echoes across the ruined hall; loud, too loud. But he couldn’t just _stop_. He couldn’t. 

The ghosts had been scentless. They came at him with voices and sometimes cold touches. But never through the nose his father had told him to be proud of. As long as these hauntings smell like nothing, he would still probably be fine.

Yet this ghost, this particularly real illusion has smelt exactly like Claude…

When his laughter stops, it is not because he wills it to stop. His throat tightens as he slumps forward, breathing in the scent - as calming as it used to be -, “Not you too...” he says, not even registering that it has slipped out of his lips. 

Of course Claude’s ghost would affect him the most, he had been his comfort during those peaceful months in the academy. He had been a proof of hope, that perhaps he wouldn’t have to pursue his dream by himself. That maybe, he isn’t… ~~alone to bear the burden~~. Yet his scent has invaded his mind; chipping what's left of his grip to hope.

“So be it then...” he says, accepting its existence and addressing it, knowing it would hear, “...if even you would come here, that means, I’ve failed everything then”

Before the broken goddess, he kneels in acceptance. 

It’s his fault.

His own fault.

If only he hadn’t clung into this thin hope. If only he had listened to their voices. If only he had looked back to see if Dedue was there. If only he had been stronger, faster, more perceptive to see Edelgard’s charade as a good little student. If only.

If only.

~~‘If only’ wouldn’t change anything.~~

This is his penance; to live with those who have died until he finishes the path of vengeance that they've laid before him.

“Dimitri?”

And oh goddess, it nearly sounds like Claude, it’s him, his ghost, the hand on his shoulder feels real, his heart clenches in pain.

No it’s not! His instinct screams in denial and his hand heeds the underlying command behind its unholy cry to take hold of its throat. It pulses beneath his finger, warm, and ~~alive~~. The ghost has green eyes like Claude’s, which are staring at him, wide and fearful _it’s not real, it’snotreal, **IT’SNOTREAL**_. Good, he can touch this ghost.

That means it can be killed off.

But, oh, this is wrong, wrong, wrong. Why is there a scent? Why does he, no, _it_ has a scent? He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want Claude’s scent. Not now. Not when he knows this is just a mere false hope conjured by the truth that Claude has died and he has to bear the burden of his death. Adding it to the pile of promises he had collected.

~~It’s Claude~~

_Go away!_

It’s ~~Claude~~

 _NO_.

What if it is truly Claude?

_That can’t be. He’s not here. Edelgard must’ve killed him. His ghost has come here to haunt him, to blame him for his death like the rest of them._

But what of Dedue? His ghost isn’t here, right? Not everyone who died by Edelgard’s hand is going to haunt you. Besides, you can touch him, see? ~~He’s real~~

_Shut up!_

His fingers wrap around the ghost’s collar as he pulls it toward him. Its artificial warmth enrages him. The scent wafting to his nose, attempting to calm him only infuriates him further. How dare this spirit try to imitate the real Claude! The beat he hears must’ve been him supplying the rest of its illusion. 

He hates it. He should just kill it.

But his mouth falls open as he says, "Why do you have a scent?" 

"Uh…" the ghost replies in Claude’s voice. No, it’s deeper. Aged. How far would this illusion go to convince him that this is real?

Snarling, he pulls it closer, as if to challenge it, daring it to try and trick him further, "Why do you have a scent, Riegan!? A ghost should not have a scent!"

It has the audacity to sound confused of its own existence. 

He throws it to the ground.

It yelps like a human being.

_It needs to be killed_

_That scent would only remind him of a future that would never come. That he, a mere puppet for vengeance, has a future separate than his purpose now_

Something parries his spear when he brings it down at the ghost _it doesn’t matter_. He quickly resumes his attack to see a half broken dagger being flung at his head. His free hand moves to grab the useless weapon, ignorant of the cut it leaves to his palm and hurls it away from him. His gaze is fixated at the ghost, following it as it retreats back, wheezing in fear.

It whistles suddenly - uselessly - before he pins it to one of the pillars with the shaft of his spear against its beating neck. 

At the same time, something breaks through the wall near the side entrance and he snaps his head toward the source. A wyvern; white as snow has torn through the wall, growling as if to answer a call. It ignores the bricks tumbling down to the floor as its gaze scours throughout the perimeter as if in search for something. When it locks its gaze with him, it lets out a roar and leaps toward him.

Instinctively, he growls back. And gets thrown like a ragdoll for the trouble.

* * *

_”How about you?”_

_”What about me?”_

_”Yes, how about your childhood, Claude? No one had known about you before Duke Riegan declared that he has a grandson. Have you lived in hiding?”_

_”In hiding? Oh my, how scandalous your imagination turns out to be, your highness”_

_”I-- no, that is not what I implied”_

_”Are you turning red? Did you just imagine it?”_

_”No, I don’t--” a sigh, “...it’s merely curiosity. You seem to never talk about yourself that much”_

_”Did I?”_

_”Yes, you never did”_

_”Would that make me more charmingly mysterious?”_

_”Claude, you’re already a mystery as you are right now”_

_”Not ‘charmingly’ mysterious? Surely, if I piqued your interest to the point you’re conjuring imagination of my childhood, I must’ve possessed more charm than I thought myself to have”_

_”I suppose, yes, someone must’ve found that aspect attractive in a person-- why are you batting your eyelashes?”_

_”Ssssh, I’m attempting to charm you”_

_A chuckle, ”Do you think it would work?”_

_”Should be, I’ve seen Hilda did this plenty of times to master how to manipulate them to do your chores”_

_”I don’t see the reason for you to do that, you’re already plenty charming by being yourself”_

_”......”_

_”Are you alright, Claude? You looked feverish, should I get professor Manuela?”_

_”Goddess, your princeliness, someday you’re going to break someone’s heart without knowing it yourself”_

_”I’m...sorry?”_

_”Alright, alright, apology accepted. Now where were we? Ah, yes, you told me in passing about Glenn’s attempt at dual wielding which ended up with someone being bald. Please, do elaborate further on that”_

* * *

“Dimitri”

He startles awake, hands scrabbling to find a weapon by his side and grasps around the hilt of a blade before he brandishes it toward whoever has woken him up. Claude’s scent is tickling his nose and he nearly jostles back, squinting at the sight to see whose ghost has come to haunt him next. What he sees in front of him snaps his consciousness fully awake. 

Bright mint hair, rueful cobalt eyes as well as a sad, sorrowful frown. “Professor?” he whispers, disbelieved. No, it shouldn’t be. It couldn’t be. They had died, fallen into that ravine years ago without hope of surviving the fall. This must be another ghost. Yes. It must be. But why now? Why are these familiar faces from the past tormenting him one after the other?

( **Because you're too slow. You let these people die** )

“Even you, professor...” he says, bitter as he looks away, refusing to see and be deceived further by how real it had looked. 

A gloved open palm is offered toward him as they kneel, its lips tugged into a small smile, “I’m glad you’re alive...” it says, soft. There isn’t a trace of hatred nor demand on their voice. It’s filled with affection and sincerity, a simple pure gratefulness of his existence. This is too good to be true, too perfect for a truth, “Are you an assassin dressed as my old teacher to kill me?” he spits instead, resentment polluting his words. 

Because if _they’re_ not a ghost, they would be a human being, intending to kill him like every visitor he had had the honor to welcome in this former chapel. Just like the previous visitor he had before he lost consciousness. His grip on his weapon tightens as he keeps the blade between them, a silent threat for what he would do should the other get closer.

They don’t look frightened by that. On the contrary, they thoughtfully stare at him, as if trying to find what lies beneath his head. Then, they inhale deeply and say in the most stern voice _Professor Byleth_ ever used, “Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” he instinctively flinches, memories of that day in class where he took Felix’s threat too far flashes through his mind, “...you of all people know not to accuse their teacher unreasonably. Now, choose your own punishment: take my hand or a detention”

> _”Choose, Dimitri: detention or hugging it out with Felix?”_
> 
> _“I am NOT hugging the boar”_
> 
> _“This goes for you too, Felix. And I’ll make sure it’s the worst detention you would wish to simply hug it out instead”_

He takes the offered hand in a snap despite knowing full well that he is not a student anymore.

The weapon in his hand clangs onto the floor and only then that he sees that it’s a sword. It’s an Alliance sword, complete with its crest and golden colored hilt. An Alliance noble would have one, he notes. _Claude_ would have one. As if to mock him, that scent wafts around him, reminding him of the Riegan’s heir presence.

“Good,” the professor says, snapping his attention back to them _they’re...real?_ and before he can say anything, he is pulled into an embrace, “...I am truly glad that you’re alive...” is murmured into his ear.

Professor Byleth has never had any scent, yet their presence would always feel welcoming. He hesitantly places his own ( **bloody, dirty** ) arms around their smaller form and slowly, gradually allows himself to relax into their embrace for the moment.

A quiet moment that he desperately needs despite the buzzing noises at the back of his head. He relishes in their presence, letting the familiar memory pass through.

“So...” the professor says, breaking it, returning him to the present.

Dimitri cuts in, “I am still going to kill Edelgard...” he says with a growl.

“I know,” they say, understanding, “...I’ve already said that I’m simply glad that you’re alive” they tighten their grip on him. A gesture that he’s surprised to see coming from the previously indifferent teacher. “If you’re going to stop me, I would put you down...” he says. It’s a fair warning and one that he would see through. The dead have been waiting for far too long to exact this act of vengeance, he would not fail.

The professor nods against his shoulder, solemn, “And I won’t stop you. All I ask is for you to be certain that this is the right thing to do. That Fodlan would find peace if you take Edelgard out of the picture” they say, separating their embrace to meet his gaze. Their eyes are fixated on his own, asking unspoken questions and delving for answers through his single orb. It’s unnerving - they almost make him squirm.

Despite this, he holds his gaze, instinct pushes him not to back down.

When they are satisfied with whatever they find within, they nod and regard it no more, finally leaving him into his own space in a respectful distance. Their statement, however, lingers far longer than their gaze. It makes him _think_ and almost after he tries to seek an answer, they hiss into existence, placing a cold hand against his cheeks.

( **Why bother thinking? You’ve seen her massacred your people, seen her behind the mask. You know what she’s capable of doing if you leave her alive.** )

He grits his teeth and looks away, the throbbing beneath his skull pulses painfully. ( **Or do you doubt us?** they suddenly say. A fury is blazing beneath each word, daring him to answer). Bringing a palm to press against his temple, he stops the train of thought unwillingly, feeling light headed all of a sudden.

_Isn’t it easier to think that she is the perpetrator of everything?_

Yes! It is easier to blame her rather than finding out the truth. This, for him, is the absolute truth, even if it turns out to be an embellished lie. He does not want to find out which one is true. 

Had his eyes seen lies? Had his younger self seen images he wanted to see, not the actual view of what has happened? The throbbing against his skull intensifies when he tries to come up with another possibility. 

( **The Flame Emperor is Edelgard and she's responsible for everything. That is all you need to know.**

_  
**Nothing else matters.**  
_

A lone groan slips through the crack between his gritted teeth as he massages his temple to focus on the view before him, not the sight they want him to see ( **To ‘recall’, little prince, it had happened, it’s not your imagination** ). He visibly winces at the sudden sharp pain and pointedly tries to ignore the remark which came with it.

_  
**Nothing else matters.**  
_

It haunts him still, whispered to his ears every now and then to send unneeded fury down his spine. ( **A gift to help you focus** they purr). His mouth falls open to scream, to let out anything at all to express his frustration when professor Byleth barrels into him, their back to his front as if to protect him.

“Heads up, we have company” they say as indifferently as the teacher he has known years ago.

He looks over the other’s shoulder and finds a group of bandits - vermins, he thought their friends’ absence would have been warning enough - pointing their weapons at them. “Heard there’s numerous treasure and a beast guarding it up here,” one of them says, “...but there is no beast here, just two sorry looking men protecting a ruin” he continues.

Arrogant swagger exudes from the man as he shuffles further in, throwing his gaze around, “A good-looking ruin though, pretty sure there’s a damn good reason they said it would have treasures. Church was rich before it fell” he says, whistling as he passes a few glimmering candle holders. 

“Not yours” the professor says.

The bandit guffaws at that, his companions echo his laughter. “Surviving church supporter, I see” he steps forward, not even relenting when professor Byleth takes a stance, “...did you know that there is a rule in the world, out of your pretty little bubble of life under the goddess’s blessing. And that is--”

A gurgled cry smothers the rest of his sentences as his gaze snaps downward, to where a blade has made its aim on his abdomen. Blood trickles down the gleaming sword, staining it red for what seems to be the first time. His eyes trail up from the blade to its hilt to the hand which holds it. 

Dimitri watches as the life seeps out of the thief’s eyes, the pupils rolling back, “The strong eats the weak” he finishes the sentence for the dying man and pulls his blade to the side, effectively cutting half of the bandit’s stomach out. He turns his gaze up, toward the rest of the group and delights as they hesitate, fear coloring their faces into pallid color. 

Professor Byleth gives him a surreptitious glance, though they keep their position by his side, the Sword of Creator glowing in their hands. “If you’re looking for the beast in the church,” he says, lips tugged into a sneer, “...you’ve found him”

The first to run is the young man near the front. His eyes are wide and he screams like a damsel in distress. He cuts him easily with a single strike to his nape. Not too far from him, professor Byleth nonchalantly shrugs off the blood away from the jagged edges of their own sword after piercing another man on their torso. 

They scramble, scurrying away after the small show of prowess. Cowardly rats always know when the odds are against them and understand the need to run away. But he doesn’t need anyone to squeal about his existence here, doesn’t need anyone to know the description of the beast in the church ruins.

( **A beast trying to kill a monster, how fitting** )

Someone is pleading for his life, words tumbling out in a hurry that they make no sense to anyone but the speaker. He ignores the begging tone and stabs the speaker through his mouth to shut him up. His ears have grown too used to hearing people’s scream that the chortled cry does not bother him in the slightest as he moves to the next person to murder.

It is a quick affair; taking someone’s life that is. And dirty, with red as its primary color stark against the white or tan of humans’ skin. He never tries to clean the blood off of his weapon, but knows that the stain would dry and flake, leaving nearly impossible-to-clean smudge on its surface.

Once the last of the bastards fall to the ground - headless - his eyes flick toward the open door, to where he thought the bridge had been destroyed. His former teacher sheepishly scratches their cheek and gestures toward the makeshift plank as if proud with what they have come up with, yet also regretful that it has also allowed others -uninvited guests- to cross over. 

"I never thought they would follow me up here…" they say in a grimace.

"So there's more…" he says, gripping tighter at the blade in his hand until his knuckle is white. Professor Byleth gives him a soft tap on his clenched fist, a wordless reprimand for him to loosen up. Their cobalt eyes finally convey their worry, "They're not worth it" they say, shaking their head.

He wants to move out anyway, gripping the hilt of his new weapon firmly. This movement brings his eyes to the blade in his grip. The Alliance blade seems small in his hand; it is indeed smaller than what the kingdom usually makes. A spear would be nicer, he thinks and remembers to pick his family’s relic up from where it must have slipped during his previous confrontation. Should he bring it to such an insignificant fight against pests?

( **Are you sure you’d leave it where someone can come and steal it from the floor?** )

A dismayed grunt escapes his lips as he finally turns and walks back into the cathedral. The professor is startled by his sudden movement, though they follow him back into the chapel. There are new bodies he could loot from and needs to dispose of soon. Their blood is staining the floor red, adding new layers to the dried blood speckled across its dusty surface.

It never bothers him before, even when it stains his boots red as well. 

Once he reaches the broken pedestal, his single eye searches through the floor for his spear. When he finds nothing, he steps over the rotting fence and starts to seek between the crumbling stone of the goddess’s statue. Beneath his chest, his heart thumps louder. 

_Where?_

( **You...lost it?** they sound as confused as he is)

_Where is it?_

He digs through the chunks of rocks, nearly hurling everything away yet finds no satisfying result for the effort. His head snaps toward the rows of pews and pillars. It might have been thrown from his person when that white wyvern threw him. It could be hurled in the other direction, he thinks, doubtful. 

( **Or someone could have stolen it...** they growl, their anger rapidly climbing up as their breath against his skin turns deathly cold)

 _No, no, it couldn’t be_

Desperately he flings himself to ransack the whole cathedral, searching and seeking for that one last thing tying him to his name. To the family name he bears since he was born. Yet no matter how hard he tries to find the spear, it is nowhere to be seen. It has disappeared.

“Areadbhar...” he whispers. Maybe if he calls it out? 

( **Can you go any lower than this?** they say and he remembers the jail cell. The damp, suffocating air and the jeers and the mockery and the imperial guard throwing him food that he refused to eat and Dedue standing by the door with blood pooling underneath his boots)

That bastard...he thinks of the Claude-like visitor. With his white wyvern and Claude’s scent and color. His green eyes full of worry and fear and his voice which had sounded exactly like a worn out Claude. How dare he…

“Dimitri...” 

His movement is halted and he growls at whoever has dared to stop him. Professor Byleth is clutching a yellow fabric; familiar yet not at the same time, whilst glaring at him, inquiry dances between their eyes. He ignores it to keep moving, but stops when he feels the pull. “I have someone to find...” he says as controlled as he could.

“You mean Claude?” the professor says.

He snarls back at this question, “No! An imposter! He was dressed like Claude, smelt exactly like him with eyes as green as his and voice indistinguishable from Claude” 

“And wore a cloak with the Alliance crest sewn to its fabric?”

“I--what?” he stutters.

The professor pulls at the yellow fabric once more and he feels the tug from his shoulder. A scent pushes through his nose when they repeat the gesture and his jaws clench shut as he watches professor Byleth reach out carefully to unclasp the cloak over his left shoulder. That is not his cloak, is the first thing his mind comes up with. The next is that it bears Claude’s scent and on the surface of the darker shade of the cloak, the Leicester Alliance crest glares back at him.

One that is stitched so clearly, covering a good portion of the fabric to tell how important the wearer is to the Alliance. A noble, or a leader, or an heir from the Riegan family, perhaps.

“That’s...”

 _Claude’s_ chokes at the back of his throat before it could slip out. That moment is still fresh in his mind; Claude's bewildered reaction to the terror on his face as Areadbhar is brought down to pierce his torso. 

Oh, Goddess, he almost, they nearly-- 

"Do you...want to find him?" 

Professor Byleth offers him the cloak back, bright yellow and stained with little dots of blood from his previous battle. He stares at the fabric, feeling his heart clenches at the sight. Doubt starts to fester under his trembling fingers as he reaches for it and he remembers the accusation he has spat at Claude vividly.

It makes sense that he would take Areadbhar. Dimitri has become a 'beast', one who serves no purpose - empty. If he has one, it is to rip the Flame Emperor's head from her neck and hang it like a war trophy as what the dead urge him to do. Taking Areadbhar means taking a step to cut the kingdom of its morale; a step for him to stop pursuing Edelgard. One last obstacle before he’s free, both to pursue his dream and satiate the dead.

At this point, he couldn't decide on which side that Claude stands for.

And it scares him that the thought bothers him more than losing Areadbhar.

"No…" he says bitterly, retracting his hand without touching the cloak. 

Professor Byleth frowns at this, "Why?" they ask naively. They do not know the weight behind that one single question and he has half a mind to scream at them to shut up.

So he takes a deep breath - tries his best to ignore the pleasing scent - and says as calmly as he could, "This is war, professor. We do not know on which side the Alliance stands"

He refuses to see their face, throwing his gaze toward the ceiling instead. His mind is in turmoil; the dead wants him to scream bloody murder and storm Enbarr, right in this second. His logic has stopped convincing himself that he could receive aid from any of his old classmates. 

Coming to the monastery is a desperate bid; one that leads to a slightly hopeful outcome: the professor being alive. His metaphorical heart bangs against his chest, demanding him to trust the scent which had brought peace to his soul, to trust in someone who has stolen his family's relic. The only connection he has left to the kingdom - the weight of his bloodline duty.

Yet he does neither of those options and chooses to stay silent. Stagnant, in this formerly precious place while waiting for a promise to be fulfilled.

"I do not know which side the Alliance stands for, Dimitri," the professor says, finally, "...but Claude is the last person I see standing against you"

A wry chuckle titters out of his lips as he turns toward the shorter male, "And what…" he says, "...makes you think that?" An image flashes over the professor's form. Years ago, under the starry sky with the music from the ball muffled behind closed doors. How convinced the professor had been that night.

Then a smile, soft, careful, an exact replica from that night years ago. "A hunch," the professor says, pressing the cloak into his arms, "...maybe you should trust your hunch as well, Dimitri"

He stares at the cloak for a moment, accepts it carefully before tying it over his shoulder and back.

( **Fools...** they say though not with as much heat as he’s used to)

* * *

They're invitations when he finally thinks about it. 

Like the whispers brushing against his ear that night after they danced. The wink Claude sent him and those strings of words which made up the actual invitations, spoken with confidence as if he knew that it would be accepted.

These pieces are parts of that invitation; done with conviction that he would understand the meaning behind Claude's reckless decision.

Taking Areadbhar is a rather loud, near thoughtless call that couldn’t be ignored even if he wants to - it represents that first brush against his ear to gain attention. The yellow cloak wrapped around him is the words - an address, obviously, so he knows where to go and who has extended the invitation toward him. And the Alliance Sword makes up the extra - a wink to add the invitation with a flair only few can do.

As things start to slot together nicely inside his head, he finally opens his mouth and says, "Do you...know what happened to the Alliance?" 

His former professor shakes their head, "No, I've just woken up myself," they answer, "...I have yet to know what had happened during my...absence" 

Woken up?

An aborted sputter escapes his lips as he puts words together once more, "Have you been taking the world's longest nap, professor?" He asks in disbelief. They nod at his remark, "I think, I've never had a deeper sleep" they say, as impassive and serious as ever. He processes this before chalking it up to the many mysteries of professor Byleth.

Another silence engulfs the hall, less pressuring and empty. His mind is clear, clearer than when his thoughts were muddled together. The voice is strangely quiet, falling into a soft, slightly uncomfortable buzz at the back of his head. He lowers his head to take a deep inhale - oh, he misses this scent - and stands up as if to brace himself for this request.

"Let's go to the Alliance, professor" he says.

_He has an omega to interrogate_

* * *

Unfortunately, the pests who have been festering around the monastery stirs the calm he has regained with their jeers and mockery. Those voices begin as soon as the first bandit steps into his personal space and tries to poke him with the blunt edge of their sword. They must’ve been one of the bravest souls among them as he could see the other hesitating and even gaping at their accomplice’s antics.

Professor Byleth stops them before he could actually touch him, “No...” they say, concise. 

“And what are you going to do if I don’t want to?”

( **Look what your ignorance had brought Fodlan into? Vermins and rats who need to be exterminated** )

He grabs the offender’s wrist with his bare hand and squeezes.

Their eyes widen, mouth falling open to let out a strangled cry as they beg and plead for him to let go. He pulls at them, bringing the shorter man to his eye level without relenting his grip on their wrist. They look terrified ( **Cornered mice** ) as he opens his own mouth and says, “Leave” as an indisputable command.

When he lets go, the man scrambles to his feet and runs away, crying in terror. The crowds are silent for a moment before chaos erupts from within the rank. A few wise ones choose to run, following the lead from their previous comrade. The other, those who are plagued with greed and needs refuse to escape without any bounty in their pockets.

So they brandish each of their weapons, steeling themselves as they wait for him to make his move.

By his side, professor Byleth calmly unsheathes their sword. They eye him, worried, “Self-defense, Dimitri” they say; firm and soft all at once as a warning. He grits his teeth, feeling their voices push at the back of his mind. ( **Erase them** it throbs and he ducks, seeking comfort from the lingering scent wrapped around his neck)

 _They’ll be fine_.

* * *

There is a part of him which couldn’t believe that his former schoolmates and childhood friends have come to his aid when he and the professor are cutting through the bandits’ number. 

He can’t hold back fully as he progresses. With the deafening voices piping up every now and then, demanding him to kill them since they deserve the punishment, he finds himself striking in an attempt to kill instead of defending himself.

So when an arrow whizzes past him to strike his foe in his stead, the voice is stunned to silence.

Ashe’s name slips out of his former teacher’s lips before they return to the fray, less tense than before. He glances up at one of the broken walls and finds Ashe atop one, nocking an arrow. Their eyes meet and the archer smiles in greeting at him before focusing back at his aim.

The next second, a bandit has one arrow piercing through his throat.

He pushes the choking foe away from his view, deflecting their comrades who have little to no subtlety to ambush him. Their axe and sword both meet his blade and Dimitri shoves both away from his person. It's a miracle that his weapon has yet to break. They cry in fury, curses spilling out of their lips as they recover and immediately return to their task of subduing him. He growls in return, readying his own weapon.

A gust of harsh wind passes through him harmlessly before it strikes both of his pursuers. They scream as it leaves crescent-shaped cuts all across their exposed skin. Blood trickles down after each cut, prompting agonized cries from their throat. Both fall mere moments after, bleeding and cursing aloud.

He blinks at this gruesome sight, baffled. A gentle hand taps his shoulder and he turns so fast his neck actually producing a strange 'crack' sound. "Oh my," his eye catches short icy blonde locks and a worried smile, "...I apologize if I've surprised you. Did that hurt, your highness?" she says as one of her hands moves and he feels the warmth from a healing magic washes over him.

"Mercedes, is his highness okay?" someone says from a distance. He barely is aware when that distance is closed and he sees a young woman with orange hair cascading down her shoulder rushing toward them. Anette looks relieved when she finally reaches them both, her lips curl into an unrestrained smile as she expresses his joy of reunion.

He turns back into the trouble at hands, explaining quickly that he would try and open a way out of the monastery. And kill those who stand in his way of achieving so. The two nod in tandem, surprisingly cooperative and follow him quietly. 

Judging from the tumbling gravels, Ashe has also followed their small group.

A little ways to the side, professor Byleth barrels into view, a new long gash is visible on their arm, between the ripped sleeves. They spot those two new faces and waves with their free hand, “Oh, hello Mercedes, Anette and oh, Ashe, almost didn't see you there” they say nonchalantly in greeting as if the bleeding wound is nothing to balk at. Anette lets out a yelp as Mercedes calmly casts another healing spell, closing the wound as best as the magic could.

They nod at Mercedes, giving her a thumb's up before parrying a blade with one hand, snapping their attention back to their abrupt attacker, obscured by the walls. Ashe quickly climbs up the stone wall, leaping across the scattered remains of buildings to reach professor Byleth. “Up front, your highness!” comes Anette’s voice and he flings his gaze toward his own problem.

One axe wielder right by his front and an archer who’s sneakily trying to hide among the rubbles. Another wind spell bypasses him toward the archer as he bears down at the man wielding the silver axe. The man grunts at his assault, though he does not go down. They are locked in a stalemate, him pushing and his foe defending for his life. It's only when Mercedes’s soft spell-casting reaches his ears that he loosens a bit. 

A horse's neigh snatches his attention to seek Anette. There's a growl clawing at the back of his throat when he doesn't find her. Startlingly, Mercedes moves first, her eyes narrow as she takes another step to where the archer should be. He pushes the blinded man away from his person and steps after her. Another neighs echo as Anette's muttering follows. 

"Oh, if it isn't his highness and sweet Mercie," a voice says and he nearly crashes into a stallion, “...good evening you two. It is a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Sylvain merely winks when he scoffs at his greeting. Behind the knight, Anette peers over his shoulder, clutching tight at Sylvain as she pouts. “Are you still angry, Anette?” the red head says, glancing over his shoulder to meet the pouting girl’s eyes. She huffs to reply his question before sliding off of the saddle cautiously. 

He watches as Mercedes fusses over the shorter girl calmly, smiling as Anette in turn worries over her frantically. Faintly, he remembers their bond in the academy days; close-knit, always within each other’s sights as if their blood relatives. Awkwardly, his eye trails off to see Sylvain atop the horse, seated comfortably as the red haired knight watches the sky.

“Is there an ally on the other side?” Sylvain asks, eyes not leaving the sky.

Dimitri follows his gaze and gapes.

Sylvain lets out a chuckle, “Ingrid and Felix are helping whoever’s on the other side,” the knight says and his heart clenches at the sight of a pegasus maneuvering the air like fish in water, “...if not, they’d be coming straight here to aid you”

His lips tremble as he watches the white pegasus take a dive and spiral into the sky with no stutter. Beneath his chest, his heart clenches further to the point that it aches. Another voice arises; no, not the one he’s usually haunted with, another one - unknown, something he couldn’t put a name into. 

_They’re coming back…_

There is warmth coursing through his body, quieting down his thoughts and doubts. _Why are they coming back?_ He places his hand over the plate armor right over his chest, bewildered by what has invaded beneath the cold metal plating. Unconsciously, he stares at each one of them, searching for doubts, conflicted feelings, anything that should be there for him; a consequence for him after running away from his responsibilities.

Finding nothing of the sort, he turns away from the scene.

He didn't win their trust, no, it’s a gift.

And he wouldn't let what they've given go to waste

* * *

“I thought I would find a wild beast in here, but it seems you’ve managed not to go feral, huh, boar?”

The silence manages to make the thud from professor Byleth’s journal smacking Felix’s head that much louder. Predictably, the swordsman yowls. Unpredictably, he merely growls wordless discomfort at the professor before backing off. Beside him, Ingrid snorts, “He might say that, but when the news of you dying spread out, he’s the very first to believe that you’re not dead and insist we track you down with your scen” she says gleefully. 

Delight flashes across her and Sylvains’s face when Felix snaps at her to shut up.

“I heard the news as well, but since they didn’t show any dead body, I’ve prayed that you are still alive, prince Dimitri and here you are” Mercedes adds in, clasping her hands together. Anette sidles up to the priestess’s side, grinning, “I know you wouldn’t be killed that easily, prince Dimitri! Everyone in the class must’ve believed so as well!” she says cheerfully.

“Dedue told me about his plan before your execution was made public,” Ashe starts and chills suddenly roll down his spine, “...and since he’s not here...I suppose something bad had happened”

_”Go, I’ll follow”_

A hand grasps his shoulder suddenly, snapping his thought shut, “Your highness, whatever had happened, he must’ve been proud that he managed to keep you alive,” he meets Ashe’s gray eyes, burning with quiet determination, “...please don’t blame yourself, he’d hate to be your source of grievance”

The hand leaves and he looks away, unconvinced. 

Before him lies the green field of Fodlan’s heart, behind him, the ruins of Garegg Mach monastery, too open and vulnerable for anyone to loot from. And to the South, he remembers Enbarr faintly drawn on the map. Turning his head to what he deems as East, he could see Derdriu etched on the parchment. 

He closes his eyes.

“Heard from the professor that you’re going to the Alliance” comes a curt remark from his right; his blindside. Yet he doesn’t react defensively, “Yes, there is someone I need to ask a question to,” he says, strangely calmly. A condescending snort is his reply as Felix punches his shoulder lightly, “I hope you know what you’re doing, boar. We’re here not to serve you or your lover, but the kingdom” the swordsman says. 

“I know,” he replies firmly as he opens his eyes to meet those amber brown eyes, “...there’s a deal I need to make with the Alliance leader”

Felix arches an eyebrow, perplexed, “A deal? With Riegan? Are you sure you’re not thinking with your natural instinct?” he asks.

Dimitri nods, turning his sight back to the horizon, where the endless green seems to stretch forever; a view that belies the truth that they’re in a fierce war against one another. “It’s for the kingdom’s benefit. Once we’re there, you’ll see...” he says.

Another punch - stronger this time - lands onto the back plate of his left shoulder and Felix says, almost genially, “Wipe that stupid smirk off your face. It doesn’t suit you”

He laughs instead, softly and hoarsely at the same time.

* * *

(Later, Felix and Ingrid would give him an earful for letting the Alliance leader steal the Hero’s relic. But the look on their face when Claude amiably greets their party with Areadbhar on tow in their private meeting is definitely ones he would never forget)

* * *

BONUS  
“Okay, but really, does anyone want to say this or should I volunteer again?”

“What is it, Sylvain? Speak your mind”

“Am I to be called brazen if I think that you are going to propose to our schemer lord?”

“Wha- no, this meeting concerns the war, not something as trivial as that”

“You are wearing his cloak; an omega’s cloak, in fact and he has yours, probably. You two are practically engaged in everything but papers”

“I- we--, no, this conversation is over”

“Oh, come on, your highness, give a guy some ju--”

“Sylvain, the ten thousand golds bet”

“Ack! Professor, we’ve only just met and you’ve already tried to extort me for money?”

“With interest”

“.......”

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest I'm not even sure I could finish this once I've reached around 15 k bcs boy, this is the biggest story I've ever written in here. Still want to write more, but I'm quite happy with how this turns out to be. It is not by any means perfect and there must be a lot of plot holes in there especially regarding Dimitri, but it is finished.
> 
> Also halfway through I'm even forgetting that this is an ABO fic not just scent fic adjhassdnlkasf;a
> 
> Next time I'm tackling ABO with these two I'm making PWP :(


End file.
